


The Courting Dance

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Archenland, Book: A Horse and His Boy, Calormen, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Narnia, POV Multiple, Politics, Post-The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Romance, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marriage is a bit more complicated than quarreling and making it up again, especially for the crown prince of Archenland and an exiled Calormene Tarkheena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mother of Exiles

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing "The Courting Dance" somewhat by accident. Back in 2010, I wrote a little 15-minute ficlet about Aravis prodding Cor into making a move in a Calormene-style courtship. A couple days later, in response to [rthstewart](http://rthstewart.dreamwidth.org)'s encouragement, I wrote a sequel from Hwin's POV. Then I admitted that I'd been ambushed by yet another chaptered story. *headdesk*
> 
> The narrative arc is relatively jumpy, which is a side-effect of the way the POV switches every chapter. There is a LOT of worldbuilding -- this story is equal parts romance and meta on Archenland and its fraught history with Calormen. And my writing pace is, as always, the next best thing to glacial. But I have an outline of sorts -- my current estimate calls for 15 chapters total -- and I _will_ finish this sooner or later. *resolve face*
> 
> ( **ETA, 15 August 2016:** It definitely ended up 'later' rather than 'sooner,' and only 13 chapters rather than 15, but I got there in the end!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aravis has made her home in Archenland, but she is still Calormene by birth and culture. She hopes Cor is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the 2/15/10 word #130 on [15_minute_fic](http://15_minute_fic.livejournal.com).
> 
> Cor latches on to his new identity very fast and hard in HHB, and there are both sound political and strong personal reasons for Lune to ignore and suppress any whispers about Cor's childhood cultural 'conditioning,' but the fact remains, Cor grew up in Calormen and he marries a Calormene woman. I refuse to believe there is no connection between those two things. Also, Aravis and Cor must add elements beyond friendly arguments to their relationship at some point, considering they do have at least one son. So I played around a little. *grin*

Aravis had never cared much for feminine beauty, neither as applied to herself nor to her friends and rivals. Her ideal of grace had more to do with galloping horses and the ripple of sunlight on well-forged steel. But she knew what a Tarkheena should look like, sound like, and smell like. She knew about hair oiled and braided into a gleaming crown, about bells around the ankles and light chiming laughter, about musk and spices dabbed at the throat and wrists and ears. She had watched her stepmother catch her father. She knew the steps of the dance.

Aravis wanted to catch Cor's eye, wanted him to realize that they should spend the rest of their lives together as more than battle companions. But she had no perfume save for the echo of dried flowers pressed into soap. She had no bells, only the ring of sword on sword, and her laughter had never been restrained like Lasaraleen's. She had no oil but the kind used to preserve blades or keep leather supple.

She would have asked Lucy for advice -- Lucy had known, like no other woman Aravis had ever met, how to be both warrior and woman, and how to make a foreign land home -- but the kings and queens of Narnia had vanished as mysteriously as they had come into this world. Aravis had no one else she trusted to guide her in the ways of northern women.

So she argued and fought and pressed Cor harder and harder -- in council, on the practice field, out riding -- anything to let him know her attention was his. She let her eyes linger on the lines and curves of his body as he moved, or her hands brush his bared skin when she handed him a shirt or towel. If she had only the starkness of the north and the beauty of war, she would make the most of them and cease mourning for the land and customs she had willingly renounced. But oh, some nights she dreamed of combing scented oil into Cor's new and ragged beard, tidying the blond hairs into a braided, pointed queue. Some nights she dreamed of his hands unwinding bells from her ankles and draping the cords across the arches of her feet.

She began to insult his manhood in public, wondering if he would understand the meaning underneath her words, or if being northern by blood had kept him from learning the courting dance. For a month, Cor argued, evaded, and made every response but the one she wanted. Aravis grew furious, then resigned. She told herself she should have known a fisherman's son would be ignorant of the ways of the world, as he had been ignorant of the rules of betrothal among the Tarkaans. Or perhaps he was trying to leave Calormen behind like a shed skin, trying to convince the people he would one day rule that he was one of them by culture as well as by blood and choice.

Whatever his reasons, the results were the same.

And then, the morning of the new moon -- the day Zardeenah of the Maidens yielded power to Achadith the Queen -- Aravis found a tiny bottle in her chambers, made of blue glass and sealed with lead rather than cork. Her mother had kept bottles like that. Not daring to let herself hope, Aravis pried out the stopper and raised the bottle, cupping her hands around the glass to warm the delicate oils within.

She breathed in, not the sickly sweet ghost of flowers that northerners sometimes used, but the heavy, smoky musk for which Calavar, her father's domain, was famed. Her mother's perfume. The scent of home. A set of hawk jesses, their leather cords hung with tiny bells, lay on her washing table beside the perfume.

An answer. An invitation.

Aravis dabbed a drop of musk behind each ear, at each wrist, at the hollow of her throat. She combed sword oil through her long, dark hair and braided it into a crown. She tied red silk cords to the ends of the jesses and wrapped the leather and bells around her ankles and calves to bind her trousers tight. As she walked, the gleam of metal and the scarlet of silk were visible now and then through the slits in the side of her long, scarlet skirts: the formal court dress in Calaverene colors that she had sewn for herself when no one in Anvard had been willing to make clothes in the Calormene style.

Lasaraleen would have added kohl and jewels, but Aravis had none and did not miss them. She had the basics as close to correct as she could manage in Archenland, and frippery would be lost on Cor in any case.

King Lune's courtiers looked at her askance as she passed in a whirl of silk and scent and sound. Several sneezed. Aravis ignored them.

Cor was waiting in the stables, two dumb horses already saddled and bridled. As Aravis's perfume drifted through the low, wooden building, the horses whickered and shied at the unfamiliar scent.

"Thank you," Aravis said as she set her foot into his cupped hands and vaulted into the saddle. Cor's hand lingered on her ankle for a long moment as Aravis arranged her skirts, his fingers sliding along the leather and silk and flicking lightly against one of the bells. It chimed faintly, and Cor smiled to himself.

Aravis met his eyes as he looked up. Abruptly, he flushed and looked away, hurrying to open the stable door and lead his horse outside.

"It's not that I don't like you normally, in breeches and all," Cor said as he latched the stable door behind Aravis and swung into his own saddle. "But I grew up in Calormen too, and you're beautiful when you dress like a woman. Even if you did forget to bring your sword. If you faint, don't expect me to catch you."

Before Aravis could think of a suitably stinging response, Cor kicked his horse into a gallop, heading for the castle gate and leaving Aravis to breathe in a sudden cloud of dust.

Aravis spurred her horse to follow, swearing revenge at the top of her lungs.

Later, she would also consider a reward, and an answer to the question his hands and eyes had asked. But that was something for Cor alone to know, just as his gift had been for her alone to understand.

For all that he was Lune's son, Corin's brother, Cor was still a child of Calormen. He knew the steps of the courting dance as well as Aravis did. She had opened the dance. He had offered a gift. She had accepted. Now there were only two ways this could end -- marriage or blood feud -- and since Cor wouldn't dare trouble his father with the political headache of a feud with Kidrash Tarkaan…

Aravis bent low over her horse's shoulders, teeth bared in a fierce smile as she slowly gained on Cor, and anticipated the end of the race.


	2. Which Give Value to Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aravis and Cor want to be together; Lune is less than enthusiastic. Fortunately, Aravis has a friend.

Human body speech was still an awkward second language to Hwin, despite the years she had spent studying her slave-masters for hints of their moods. Bree had a sharper eye -- or perhaps battle had given him greater incentive to learn -- so he was the one who drew her aside shortly after their arrival in Anvard, while Cor was rather perfunctorily announcing them to his sire.

"Something's amiss between Cor and Aravis," Bree whispered. "Let's get them apart from each other and see what mess they've churned up this time." His lips tickled Hwin's ear; she flicked it sharply back in disapproval.

"Not in front of the king," she murmured, and shifted sideways to jostle Bree's hindquarters with her own. "You'll embarrass Cor."

"Lune isn't paying attention to _us_ ," Bree said, but he subsided until the formalities were over. Then he immediately corralled Cor and insisted on a tour of the practice grounds, so he could critique Cor's riding and swordsmanship.

Hwin sighed at the stallion's blithe assumption she would follow his lead. But spending time alone with Aravis was never a hardship, so she walked carefully down the broad, shallow steps from the lesser audience chamber and out through the great hall. The doors stood open to admit the fresh summer breeze, and Hwin breathed deeply, wondering where her friend might have slipped off to. She curled her lip back, sampling the air more carefully. There was a trace of Aravis's presence, but... but...

Hwin sneezed. A new odor was laced into the familiar scent -- something she knew she ought to recognize, though she was certain she had never smelled it around Aravis before, not even in Calormen when the girl had regularly worn perfume.

How odd. What _had_ Aravis and Cor been doing since spring?

Hwin followed the scent trail (and her intuition) to the guest stables: a spacious stone building with wide windows, a thick layer of dried rushes over a hard-packed dirt floor, and neck-high dividing walls to mark various spaces out as beds without walling their occupants off from the company of other Talking Horses. Or Talking Donkeys, as the case was -- the current junior Narnian ambassador being an intimidatingly clever jenny who had an upsetting tendency to draw Bree and Hwin aside during banquets and ask for stories of their years in Calormen. Hwin disliked remembering Calormen, and so avoided Lady Eena whenever possible.

Fortunately, the Donkey was elsewhere this day; the stables were empty save for Aravis, who was carrying a bucket of mixed oats and fresh hay toward Hwin's preferred bed. Hwin walked up behind the girl, taking shameless advantage of Aravis's restricted human field of vision, and blew gently into her thick, dark mane. A few flyaway strands of hair caught in her mouth, and Hwin rolled her lips, trying to dislodge them.

"Hwin!" Aravis scolded as she twisted around and swept a hand between her head and Hwin's nose, pulling her hair free. "Here I was trying to be kind and get your midafternoon snack ready, and you have nothing better to do than chew on my hair?"

Hwin flicked an ear in amusement. "If you don't want me to muss you, you could take to wearing braids." Aravis grumbled something incomprehensible about appropriateness, and Hwin snorted. Humans were so strange, making up rules upon rules for every tiny change of clothing and grooming. The point of grooming was to be clean and to show friendship. Speaking of which...

"There are other ways to show kindness to friends," Hwin said, tilting her head toward the brushes and combs hanging on the outer wall. Aravis sighed, but she was smiling as she set the feed bucket aside and pulled the grooming tools down. Hwin locked her legs, closed her eyes, and let herself drift into a pleasant half doze, taking full advantage of civilized amenities and a friend who knew the best ways to use them.

Except Aravis's hands were less steady than usual. Her speed was erratic, she missed several spots around Hwin's withers, and her pressure kept increasing almost to the point of pain before abruptly stopping, and starting again at a comfortable level. Hwin gave up on her doze before the sun had time to shift its angle so much as a quarter hoof along the floor. Bree had been correct. Though Aravis was doing her best to pretend nothing was wrong, she was stewing over something.

Hwin flicked her ears in resigned amusement. After all they had won through together, did Aravis still think she had to maintain a brave act for her friends? How silly. But she was young, and the young grew upset about so many, many things. Now, how to discover the source of her discontent without sending Aravis into a tirade or a sulk?

Hwin leaned into the currying, chewing over and rejecting various questions. Before she found a good approach, though, Cor stuck his head around the doorway of the stables, possibly looking for Bree. Aravis looked up at the sound of his footsteps -- their eyes met -- and Cor's golden cream skin darkened as that strange scent swirled through the stable. He mumbled a strangled apology and ducked away.

Aravis lifted the curry brush from Hwin's side and absently touched the bracelet of bells that encircled her left wrist. Then she glanced down and yanked her fingers away, as if they had betrayed her, and hastily returned to her work. "I hate King Lune," she growled, pressing too hard and digging the bristles into Hwin's flesh. "He calls the Tisroc (may he die of indigestion) a villain for placing politics over common decency, but he's just as bad."

Hwin looked Aravis up and down with her right eye, trying to remember all the little signs and motions she'd translated over the years. Aravis had her jaw clenched tight -- anger or frustration -- her temperature had risen and her buckskin complexion had darkened ever so slightly -- anger or excitement or... Oh! Suddenly the odd scent that had hovered around both Aravis and Cor made sense. Arousal. They were mating. But why would that involve Cor's sire? Perhaps they _wanted_ to mate, but he had forbidden them to do so?

Humans could be so strange about such a simple thing, Hwin reflected, but then, fillies and colts could be downright unreasonable in their own ways. Also, now she didn't have to think of a polite way to ask Aravis why she was behaving oddly around Cor.

"Forbidding a betrothal is not quite the same as starting a war by treachery," Hwin said gently. "For one thing, you are still alive and free to argue your suit?"

Aravis blinked. "How did you-- oh, why do I even bother asking. You know me far too well, Hwin. But it's no use. Lune won't listen to me, and Cor is being a milksop." She tossed the brush to the rush-strewn floor and sprang up to sit on the low wall around Hwin's bed. "He says it won't kill us to wait for Lune and the Great Council to come around to the idea. Fool! The Great Council can delay confirming Cor as crown prince until his twenty-fifth birthday, and five years of waiting will only give Lune time to arrange marriage alliances with other northern lands and lords, or Cor to find a less troublesome partner. I shall be separated from Cor by his own sense of duty and guilt, and the sun will be darkened in our eyes until the end of our days, from the loss of each other."

Aravis was slipping into high Calormene formality. That was never a good sign if you wanted a rational discussion, though it could be marvelously entertaining to hear her rant in flowing, poetic style. "Surely King Lune wouldn't make his own son miserable," Hwin ventured.

Aravis scowled. "Not intentionally," she allowed, "but Cor would have to be lying on his deathbed before he'd tell his father he felt less than perfectly happy. He hates to worry anyone (except me, for some reason), and he's still afraid Lune will tell him it's all been a terrible mistake and he'll have to go back to being a fisherman." She leaned against the outer wall of the stables and closed her eyes, sinking into a willful sulk.

"Ah," said Hwin. She flicked her tail thoughtfully and chewed over a new set of options. Cor wouldn't solve the problem, and if Aravis said King Lune wouldn't give her an audience, Hwin believed her. Therefore, someone else had to step in.

Hwin's skin shuddered, as if a swarm of flies had suddenly landed on her withers. Oh, she hated speaking out to people. She hated arguments and strife. But Bree would only be insulting -- negotiating with humans required delicacy, not bullheadedness -- and Hwin hated even more to see Aravis unhappy.

"What if I spoke with the king?" she said to Aravis.

Aravis opened her eyes in evident shock. Then she leapt down from the wall and threw her arms around Hwin's neck, rubbing the newly brushed hair the wrong way. "Would you? Would you really? I'm at my wits' end, I swear I am, and it would mean so much for someone to take my side."

"Of course I will," said Hwin, twisting around to nuzzle Aravis's hair. "Explain everything to me, and we'll work out a speech together."


	3. Speak Softly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lune loves his sons and wishes for their happiness. Unfortunately, a king cannot put himself before his country.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say in advance that I am aware that this chapter is madly inconclusive. The thing is, I could not get it to work any other way (and believe me, I tried), so I have shoved most of the meta-heavy history lesson into chapter four. Also, Lune talks oddly, and trying to sync the narrative to his dialogue -- not to mention writing said dialogue in the first place -- is incredibly frustrating. *beats head against desk* Still book canon only.

A king, were he worth his throne, could afford neither foolishness nor inobservance. Lune had expected the mare's request since the two Horses had grown restive in the midst of their formal welcome to Anvard.

"Walk with me," he said to Hwin, and nodded at Darrin to show he left the castle uncoerced.

The mare trailed a half pace behind and to his left as Lune ambled across the cleared ground before the gates. When they reached the trees she slipped altogether behind, her hooves striking the packed earth of the narrow forest road with a faint rhythm as of distant hammers. The cool of leaf-shade was welcome in the still, summer heat, and Lune tilted his head, tracking the pattern of rustles as birds and squirrels shifted a cautious distance away from the intruders into their domain.

To-day's hunt had left at dawn, heading east and south toward the Winding Arrow. Lune turned west at the first chance, down a faint footpath that led to a runoff gully. The stream itself was no wondrous sight, reduced to a damp trickle since the end of the spring thaw and rains, but that was all to the good. Young lovers sought more picturesque hideaways, and nobody drew water from mud. Lune wished privacy, not interruptions.

"Sir? Will we reach your destination soon?" the mare asked as the road vanished behind them.

"Soon enough. You plan to speak on behalf of Aravis," Lune said, stepping over a twisted root. He spread his arms to keep balance on a stone unexpectedly loose. "Ware the footing."

Hwin blew her breath out all at once. "Oh! You knew? I suppose that saves me thinking of how to begin."

Lune smiled, turning slightly so the mare could catch the edges of his expression. "'Tis easiest to bargain when both parties know the subject of the meeting. Fear not, my lady. I know my ward's desires as I know my son's. They make a good match. Were it in my power to do so without sparking disaster, I should wed them on the morrow."

The mare's ears flicked back in confusion. "But you are the king. How is anything in Archenland out of your power?"

"My lady. Consider the implication of your words. Wouldst have me make slaves of my subjects?" Lune asked gently.

Hwin's footsteps stopped, and Lune paused as well. "I-- that is-- oh. I see," the mare said after a long moment. "It isn't that you object to Aravis. Other people do -- maybe people who don't know her?"

"And those who do know her, but have other reasons for concern," Lune agreed. "Bide a time, until we reach a more private place with a seat for me and grass for you."

The mare nodded. Lune resumed his walk, pausing only to lift a fallen branch from the forest floor and swing it before himself to break the occasional cobweb. The path twisted and turned, descending from Anvard's heights to one of Archenland's innumerable valleys. At each switchback turn, Lune waited a moment to mark the mare had kept her footing.

The path ended on a narrow strip of grass, marked out from the surrounding trees by a boundary of fist-sized stones. It overlooked a verdant gorge, perhaps three times a man's height, which sheltered a thin ribbon of muddy water. A dozen yards to the north, a notched and inclined slope of rock promised a frothing waterfall come spring thaw or autumn rain. Now at summer solstice it was simply damp and green with moss. A handful of dragonflies skimmed the famished stream, and a red squirrel scuttled up the opposite bank into the trees.

Long and long ago, someone had built a makeshift seat from two low boulders and a plank of wood. That first board had since decayed, but Lune made a point to replace it every third year. This unassuming overlook was where he first spoke to his wife as man to woman, not prince to subject, and he held it dear for Elwen's memory.

Lune settled himself onto the bench and gestured to the mare that they might forgo court formality. "We may speak freely here," he said, as she swung her head this way and that, and flared her nostrils to drink the air. "What says the lady Aravis in favor of her union with my son and heir?"

The mare's skin twitched and her ears shifted back -- delicate nerves, Lune thought, not temper as it might be for the stallion who had claimed Cor as cousin -- but she composed herself and faced him straightly. "Aravis says, sir, that first, she knows Cor better than anyone but himself, and so she has experience smoothing over his stumbles. Second, she brings an excellent education in politics, geography, trade, and war, to supplement his own knowledge. Third, he loves her, and she wishes you to consider his happiness. Fourth -- she wouldn't say this, sir, but I think you ought to know -- she loves him. And fifth..."

The mare trailed to silence, shifting weight from fore hoof to hind. "Fifth, she says, 'I have traded a land, a family, and a god for ones I count more dear than those I knew of old. But I will not trade my honor without a fight. The Lion himself marked me as his own, and I will not disgrace his trust by abandoning the truest of my companions to a life that would kill him by inches.'"

Hwin looked aside, blowing air in a nervous snort. "That's what Aravis says. I agree with her."

"Prettily put, my lady, and a match for my own thoughts," said Lune. He turned his body, gazing across the gorge into the untamed forest. Some beast crashed in the distance: a deer, perhaps, mis-guessing its footing in the mulch of leaves and twigs that carpeted the wooded hills. This was a good day for hunting. He wondered what his men would bring back to Anvard at sundown.

"If you agree, why haven't you convinced others to listen? Who are the people who dislike Aravis. What are their reasons?" the mare asked, stepping forward one pace. "It may be foolish of me, but I can't see why anyone would want to keep Aravis and Cor apart when they want to be together."

Ah. The meat of the issue. "Wert born at the end of the Long Winter, my lady, if I guess true."

"In the last year before Aslan's return," Hwin agreed. "Does that matter?"

"Only in that Horses are great keepers of tales, but less diligent students of history," Lune said, holding one hand open to show friendly intent. "Once the Witch was no more, tales of her reign fell to the side, there being no need to hold the memory of free Narnia bright in winter's darkness. But history is the heart of our problem."

The mare pricked her ears forward in interest. "How so?"

Lune gazed over the damp green of the gorge, so vivid yet so fragile. "Archenland is a poor country. Small numbers can live in plenty, but only small numbers. When the Witch took Narnia, thousands fled from her army. Some took ship to the east. Some crossed the River Shribble and settled the northern coast. But most came south into Archenland." Lune sighed. "My great-grandfather welcomed them as cousins. But of a sudden, we had twice the mouths our land could support."

"Overgrazing," Hwin murmured in pained sympathy, her ears flicking back. "How many died?"

Lune allowed a smile. "None. But at great cost. And that cost is the reason many in Archenland will not accept Aravis as queen, no matter her suitability or her love for Cor. In truth, many mislike the thought of accepting Cor himself, for similar cause. Wouldst hear the long and sorry tale, my lady?"

"Why are you telling me, not her?" the mare asked.

Lune laced his fingers together and rested his elbows on his thighs, still staring at the gorge. "I have told Aravis. I have told Cor. They do not grasp the problem. Perhaps you, who have also lived in Calormen, can speak across the desert that divides us." He turned to meet the mare's eyes across the length of the grassy sward. "Wilt accept that burden, Hwin of Narnia?"

Hwin swished her tail, and the set of her shoulders and ears spoke of determination. "Yes. Tell me how I can help my friend."


	4. The Law That Makes Him King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Cor feels as though he's fallen through a mirror into a world where everything is backwards and all the people around him insist he's the one who's crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I failed to get the history lesson into the chapter, though with the hints here and in ch. 3, you are hopefully starting to get the picture of the cultural perception gap Cor and Aravis are tripping over. Next chapter will, I think, be from Corin's POV as he and Cor argue their way through the history of Archenland. (I have various sections of that already written as part of a failed version of this chapter, so hopefully it will not take so much time to pull together.)

Father had promised to make Education happen to Cor, but that fell to the side in the first months after Rabadash's humiliation. Apparently a prince couldn't simply sit in on the lessons given to the servants' and villagers' children -- Cor was secretly relieved, as he felt quite enough of a fool already -- but Corin's old tutor had been dismissed several months ago when Corin began preparing for eventual knighthood.

Eventually Aravis realized that Cor still couldn't read, and took matters into her own hands. "This is the letter A," she told him, sketching its shape in the damp earth at the bottom of a local gorge. "It starts my name. This is the letter B. It starts Bree's name. This is the letter C."

"My name?" Cor asked, having seen that written on several dreadfully official-looking documents when Father had called the Great Council to affirm that he was, indeed, the long-lost prince rather than an ambitious pretender (though they had stopped short of actually confirming him as Father's heir).

"Yes," said Aravis, giving him a glimpse of her bright, flashing smile -- her true smile, not the softer one she used for everyday manners. "Now. This is the letter D."

She spent a week teaching him his letters and some ways to sound out simple words. Then Aravis declared herself done and told Cor the only way to improve was through practice -- "just like swords and riding and anything else worth learning" -- and handed him a copy of the Great Chronicle of Archenland which she had borrowed from the castle library. "You should learn the history of the country you're going to rule," she said. "Ignorant princes are weak. Weak princes lose wars. I will not return to Calormen in chains."

Cor began muddling his way through the chronicle that afternoon.

It was slow going. The book began as the day to day record of the first settlers, under King Col the First, and mostly concerned things such as the distribution of firewood and the construction of log houses. It continued through the establishment of other villages and keeps, the creation of the Great Council to write laws and ratify or strike down the king's decrees, and endless dithering about hunting rights and boundary lines.

Cor took to using the book as an insomnia cure. Two pages a night sent him to sleep like a pinched-out wick.

Now he was beginning to think that might not have been the best idea, since he couldn't remember enough of what he'd read to have the slightest idea why Father had said it was out of the question for him to marry Aravis, nor why the few nobles he'd asked about royal weddings had recoiled at the thought of her as his bride, nor why the old rumors of his incompetence and unsuitability to inherit had once again started hissing around the corridors of Anvard, the way they had swirled thick as blackflies in the first years after he and Aravis had come north from Calormen.

There shouldn't have been a problem. Yes, the Great Council could refuse to confirm him as crown prince for any number of reasons, and there was at least one prior case where an heir apparent had been disinherited over an unsuitable marriage, but Aravis wasn't under suspicion of poisoning two prior husbands. Cor had been certain the assembled nobles and village speakers would accept her, as they were slowly coming to accept him now that Father had begun to let Cor join him on tours and sit in on meetings so people could see he was neither a fool nor ill-disposed toward the country of his birth.

Aravis had come north with him, freely choosing Archenland and Aslan as her new land and lord. She had received Aslan's blessing and welcome. She was quick and smart, graceful and striking, at ease with all the trappings and pitfalls of rank that Cor still struggled with.

Why did it matter that Aravis had been born in Calormen? Why did anyone care that she had started a courting dance instead of waiting for Cor to learn Archenland's marriage customs? Love was love, wasn't it?

There must be an explanation for this sudden upwelling of hatred and suspicion that he had somehow missed seeing all these years. Calormenes didn't hate northerners, after all. They simply didn't think about them. And Archenland was supposed to be _better_ than Calormen.

Cor wanted Aslan to appear and fix everything, but that was a selfish wish. He would have to solve this problem himself.

That didn't mean he couldn't ask someone to explain things.

Father had gone out with Hwin for the afternoon and Bree, for all his bluster, was not much use as an authority on Narnia, let alone on Archenland. Therefore, once Cor had satisfied the Horse that his riding skills hadn't rusted since they last met, and that he hadn't mortally offended Aravis (at least, he certainly hoped he hadn't), he made his way to the bare courtyard where Corin liked to box anyone he could rope into a match.

Cor got on well with his brother, but they spent surprisingly little time together. They'd grown up apart, they were being trained to different tasks, and they shared few interests. Also, as Father put it, Corin leapt without looking while Cor (who had had enough of being rash to last him a lifetime and beyond) looked without leaping. "Should learn to mime each other's virtues," Father often told them. His lectures tended to result in Cor beating Corin in a swordfight, Corin knocking him down in a boxing match, and the two of them stealing an afternoon for some minor adventure while Aravis called them both fools. Then they resumed their separate ways.

Corin looked remarkably foolish now, being stripped to the waist, dripping with sweat and blood, and sporting the first bloom of a first-rate black eye. His opponent, the senior Narnian ambassador, looked equally battered. Both man and satyr were grinning like maniacs.

Cor stuck his fingers into his mouth and whistled for their attention.

Corin flung up his left arm. "Hold!"

The ambassador, Sir Cereus, fell back one pace and turned to follow Corin's gaze. "Prince Cor," he said, offering a polite half-bow. "Is this court business or a family matter?"

"The latter," Cor said awkwardly. He had grown used to strangers bowing when introduced to him, but he hated when people he already knew kept up the habit.

"Then I will leave you in peace, your highnesses," the satyr said, smiling with bloodstained teeth. "Perhaps we can determine a victor tomorrow, Prince Corin." He trotted out of the courtyard, his hooves thudding against the dry, packed earth.

Corin seized a towel from the low stone bench that ran the length of the southern wall, and mopped his face. "This had better be important," he grumbled. "Cereus and I have each won a round and that was meant to be the tie-breaker."

"You can knock him down just as well tomorrow," Cor said without much sympathy. "I need to ask you about..." He paused, wondering how to put all his worry and confusion and anger into coherent words.

"About why you can't marry Aravis?" Corin guessed. He dropped the towel to the ground and sprawled on the bench. "Because she's Calormene. It's not complicated."

Cor sat down beside his brother, yanking his summer cloak off his shoulders and unlacing the strings of his shirt. The shade of the courtyard wall did little to soften the summer heat, and he didn't need to be formal in front of Corin. "That's the problem," he said. "I don't understand why anyone cares that Aravis was born in Calormen. _I_ was raised in Calormen. Besides, Aravis discovered Rabadash's plans -- without her, Archenland wouldn't still exist. So why can't she marry me?"

"Because she's Calormene," Corin repeated, as if talking to an idiot. "It doesn't matter that she betrayed the Tisroc. We're very grateful, and of course she can stay in Anvard as long as she wants. But you're going to be king someday and she can never be queen. Nobody would trust her, and nobody would trust you if they knew she had your ear."

Cor threw up his hands in frustration. "She already has my ear! Everybody knows she has my ear!" Even if he hadn't reciprocated her steps in the dance, Aravis would always have been the person whose advice he trusted most. "And I think a good third of the Great Council -- Marchwarden Pel, Dame Chancellor Blenith, and the rest of their faction -- won't ever trust me no matter who I marry. What is it about Calormen that makes everyone in Archenland go insane?"

"Maybe the way that the Calormenes try to invade and murder us all every few generations?" Corin said, his voice rising. He twisted to grab Cor's shoulders and stood, shoving his brother against the wall.

Cor's head struck the rough granite wall and he went very still, blinking rapidly through the dazzle of pain. He barely heard Corin's next words.

"Maybe the way they want to turn us away from Aslan and force us to make foul sacrifices to Tash the unspeakable?" Corin shoved again. "Maybe the way the Tisroc takes every chance he can find to humiliate and dishonor our kings and country?" Another shove. "Maybe the way they kidnap our children and sell them into slavery and starve them and beat them like criminals? Like they did to you!"

Cor hooked his left foot around Corin's leg and bent his knee, pulling his leg up and sideways. Corin lurched sideways, off-balance, and nearly pulled Cor down in an attempt to steady himself.

"You--!" he said.

Cor grabbed his brother's wrists and steadied him. He didn't say anything. He and Corin set each other off too easily. If one of them didn't keep his head, they'd never get anywhere.

After several breaths, Corin met Cor's eyes and flushed, embarrassed. "Sorry," he muttered, his grip loosening. "The Calormenes call us barbarians, but they have no honor. Aravis betrayed the Tisroc, but she hasn't ever renounced her father. It's one thing to accept her as your friend. It's a completely different thing to accept her as queen consort of Archenland and the mother of the next reigning king or queen."

Cor lifted his brother's hands from his shoulders and held Corin's wrists tightly. "Don't get angry. Just listen. I heard every word you said, and only half of them made sense. I came to ask you because there must be something in the history between Archenland and Calormen that only makes sense from your side. I swear in Aslan's name that Calormenes don't hate northerners. And they would have let Queen Susan marry Rabadash without a second thought."

He held Corin's eyes, telling his brother the truth he couldn't bring himself to tell Father and hadn't managed to explain to Aravis yet. "I'm going to marry Aravis. I don't care how long we have to wait or how many people I have to insult. I'll claim the throne without the Great Council's agreement if I have to. But I don't want to do that. It would break Father's heart if I put myself above the law, and I wouldn't be worthy of the throne afterward. Explain Archenland to me, so I can explain myself and Aravis to my country."

Corin's mouth twisted into a small, bitter smile. "You sound more and more like Father these days. I'm glad I don't have to think about the law and all that responsibility. No one cares who I marry, or even if I marry." He turned his head and spat onto the ground, traces of blood mixing in with his saliva. "Fine. I'll tell you anything you want to know, and I'll even try not to hit you when you say something insufferably Calormene. But let's go somewhere more private first."

Cor let go of his brother's wrists and grabbed his cloak from the ground. "Lead on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [hungrytiger11](http://hungrytiger11.livejournal.com) and [rthstewart](http://rthstewart.dreamwidth.org) for their helpful comments! Also, a clarification: Sir Cereus is the _senior_ ambassador from Narnia. Lady Eena, the Donkey jenny mentioned in ch. 2, is the _junior_ ambassador. Basically, Cereus does the ceremonial stuff and the paperwork, while Eena makes sure Cereus doesn't get carried away and make impractical or impolitic promises. (She also runs the local outpost of the Narnian intelligence service. *grin*)


	5. Mending Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have the same blood, same face, same home. So why can't Corin make Cor understand what it means to inherit Archenland?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After eight months of driving myself nuts re: cultural differences, hereditary hatreds, history lessons, sibling relationships, etcetera, I essentially gave up and did a more low-key equivalent of having random ninjas break down the door. In other words, hello there, unplanned plot twist! Thank you for getting me out of the world-building bog. Next up, Bree's POV and, with any luck, actual stuff happening. *crosses fingers*
> 
> Thanks to [hungrytiger11](http://hungrytiger11.livejournal.com) for her comments on the LJ beta draft, which helped me fix two awkward points. Also, I blatantly stole the chapter title from the Robert Frost poem, and I freely acknowledge that I'm leaning heavily on Mughal India for certain aspects of Calormene politics.

Corin led his brother up to the western watchtower, which looked out over the back of the castle toward the rich, green sweep of mountains and forest he'd seen nearly every day of his life. Before Cor had reappeared from his long might-as-well-be-dead absence, Corin used come up here and watch the wind in the trees every few weeks, reminding himself why he couldn't duck out of his responsibilities no matter how they grated on him. Plants and animals could get on with their lives perfectly well without human presence, but Archenland needed people to keep other humans out.

He set his hands on the edge of a crenel and pushed himself up to sit in the gap between two merlons, wincing slightly as the motion pulled on the developing bruises from his interrupted boxing match. Cor leaned out through a gap on the opposite side, looking down at the steep roof of the great hall.

"Where do you want me to start?" Corin asked, mostly because he had no idea where to begin. How did you explain something you'd known your entire life? And how did Cor not know this already? Were the Calormenes so proud and blind that they didn't even realize everything they'd done through the generations?

"The beginning," said Cor, being monumentally unhelpful.

But Corin had promised not to hit him. He sighed. "Archenland was founded in the year 180, by King Col. He established the Great Council--"

"I know that," said Cor. "Skip to the parts about Calormen."

Corin pried a flake of loose stone from the slate cap of the merlon and threw it at his brother. "Fine. King Frank and Queen Helen were the first humans in the world, but in the old days people stumbled through gates all the time. Not everyone who fell into Narnia liked living with Talking Beasts and other Beings, which is one reason people followed Col over the pass to Anvard. After a while, some of them decided to make Archenland a kingdom _of_ men, not just a kingdom ruled by men. Col defeated them in the year 204 and the remnants fled south across the desert. But they'd done damage -- a lot of Beasts and Beings didn't trust humans anymore. They went back to Narnia or west to the Wild, which is why most Archens are human though we welcome all people."

Cor made a face. "That sounds nasty. But even if the rebels ended up in Calormen, I don't see why it matters today. Hardly any countries welcome Talking Beasts."

"You're not listening," said Corin, tossing another piece of slate at Cor. "The rebels let the Calormenes know we existed. They learned our land might be worth taking. When Idrath Tarkaan united Calormen and declared himself Tisroc, the next thing he did was lead his army north."

Cor looked skeptical. "It couldn't have been any easier for him to bring soldiers across the desert than it is now."

"True. But Mergandy, Sarovence, and Telmar weren't proper countries then. Idrath moved his army one piece at a time and built forts as he went. How do you think Telmar was settled the first time? Then he marched east toward Archenland. No one could stand against him." Corin clenched his hand on the sharp-edged stone of the battlement, thinking of how close his country had come to disaster, both then and more recently. "The Calormenes were within ten miles of Anvard when Idrath's horse threw him as they crossed a gorge. Idrath died from the fall and Prince Ziranool rushed home to fight his brother for the throne."

"The First Brothers' War," Cor murmured, eyes closed as if tracking a half-remembered bedtime story to its lair. His accent slipped further south than usual, into the rhythms of turbaned merchants. "Fire and sword harried the land; no man lived to harvest. Famine and plague ravaged the land; no woman lived to succor. Achadith reaped a mountain of souls; no pity stayed her hand." He shook himself, snapping back to here and now. "The war was a disaster all around. What does it matter now?"

"It matters because Calormen nearly destroyed Archenland," said Corin, hating that he could hear a difference between his voice and his brother's. "Do you understand that? It wasn't just a war. It was almost the end of our country, our way of life. When the Tisroc takes a country, he doesn't let its laws and customs stand. He makes it into another piece of Calormen."

Cor frowned, turning a piece of slate around and around between his fingers. "Conquest isn't good, but it's not the end of the world. Not everyone in Calormen is like Rabadash. The Tisroc and Tarkaans take rents and levies and the priests build temples to the nine gods, but nobody makes anyone give up their customs. You can worship any god you want. You can keep your own laws so long as they don't break the Tisroc's decrees. And no one can keep Aslan from going wherever he wants."

"Slavery," said Corin.

The slate stilled in Cor's hands, his fingers tightening around its edges. "Point," he conceded, after a long moment. "But Idrath World-Conquerer didn't take Archenland, and he died seven hundred years ago. The Great Council can't still be angry over that."

Despite himself, Corin laughed. "You have no idea. Father says we picked up grudges from the dwarfs -- they hold them for sport, you know, like heirlooms. Someone always knows a song or a story to bring the insult back to life. But no, that's not the main problem. Mostly people hate Calormen because of the Long Winter."

Cor looked blank. It was a remarkably stupid expression on him, and Corin made a note to avoid it himself. "I don't see what the Winter has to do with anything," Cor said after a long pause. "The refugees stayed here, sailed to the islands, or claimed the Western Wild when the Witch left it defenseless. Even the humans didn't go to Calormen."

"Who'd want to?" Corin asked rhetorically. "But before the refugees left or settled in the western and southern marches, how do you think King Tellin fed twice the people Archenland was ready to support?"

"By importing food," said Cor, frowning. "That must have... oh. Right. Archenland went into debt. To Calormen? If you hate Calormenes, why give them any hold on you?"

"We only borrowed from Galma and the Seven Isles," Corin said hotly. "King Tellin gave his word of honor to their bankers and they agreed in person on the terms. Then the bankers sold our debt to Calormenes without asking his permission. The Calormene merchants expected us to act as if we'd made agreements with them when they hadn't even met an ambassador, let alone the king. They sold our debt on to the _Tisroc_ , as if the insult meant nothing."

Calormen never conquered Archenland in battle, but by King Tellin's death the Tisroc owned the land. He held the honor of king and country in his hands. The humiliation, the dishonor, and the worry of how to repay the compounding debt, ate at the heart of Archenland like poison.

"What insult?" said Cor, still frowning. "It doesn't matter who you borrowed from. You pay whoever holds the debt when it comes due."

Corin gripped the merlons with white knuckles to keep himself from jumping down and punching his brother's face. "You can't sell your word of honor," he said tightly. "If you don't know the person who holds your debt or who owes you recompense, how can you trust anyone to repay anything?"

"That's just how business works. Besides, the imperial auditors oversee harbors and markets to enforce the laws and punish debt-breakers," said Cor. "I still think Father should do something about that in Archenland. Honor is silk, but law is steel."

Now he was quoting Calormene aphorisms.

"How did Archenland pay back the debt?" asked Cor. "I've seen the accounts; the treasury is full."

Corin grinned, happy to turn the conversation to less fraught topics. "Now there's a story! Haven't you listened to the sea ballads? Calormene slavers bought children from the poorest refugees and turned to kidnapping once the famine eased. King Sol, our grandfather, issued letters of marque and reprisal on condition that the captains would only intercept slave ships and free the captives. In return, they kept any other cargo the slavers carried, less a percentage for the crown. Lots of younger sons went to sea until the slavers learned to leave us alone. I wish I could have helped them fight," he added, gesturing eastward toward the sea, invisible beyond the mountains.

Cor didn't answer. Curious, Corin turned and saw his brother's face had gone bloodless under his summer tan.

"Now what's wrong?" Corin asked.

"When I was seven," Cor said slowly, "a pirate fleet sailed into Firoz, the city south of my village. They hanged the city's imperial governor, captured and ransomed the High Lord of Venizar, and raided up and down the coast for whatever goods and slaves they could carry. After a month the Tisroc sent an army to retake the province."

"So?" said Corin.

Cor looked south, as if he could see his old, false home despite the distance. "If the army had come even one week later, I'd be dead. The pirates would have reached my village, Arsheesh would have sold me to save himself, and the army would have killed me as a collaborator. I didn't realize then, but I can see it looking back."

"You still don't see what's wrong with Calormenes?" Corin demanded. "They would have murdered you."

"Only because of the pirates. And they were northerners," Cor said, angry color flushing his cheeks. "They're nearly always northerners. Now I know why. Don't you see? Our grandfather paid sailors to raid certain ships under certain rules, but they learned they could make more profit by raiding anyone they pleased. That's why we called you barbarians, you know -- the pirates take everything they can carry and burn the rest. They take women and children, too. Maybe they started by freeing slaves, but they've been _selling_ slaves for a long time now."

_We_ , he said. That's why _we_ called _you_ barbarians. As if Cor were Calormene, and lawless, foresworn pirates were any true sons of Archenland.

"We aren't pirates," Corin said, raising his voice to keep himself from hitting something. "Grandfather would never have condoned piracy. Father doesn't. I don't. How can you lump us in with those monsters?"

"How can you lump Aravis in with Rabadash and his father?" Cor snapped back. He threw his hands into the air. "I give up. You're all mad. I'm going to find Aravis and the horses, and we'll elope into Narnia where nobody cares about her family. The Narnians will marry us, and the Great Council will have to live with it or make you the heir again. Tell Father I'm sorry I couldn't live up to his example, but I made a promise to Aravis and I wouldn't be worthy of his throne if I broke my word to her."

Cor spun and clattered down the spiral stairs at breakneck speed, several turns ahead and out of sight before Corin registered what he'd said and gave chase, hampered by the residual aches of his fight.

By the time Corin reached the bottom of the tower, sore and panting for breath, Cor was long gone.


	6. You Can Choose Your Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cor is Bree's boy and has been since Bree stole him from Calormen. Of course Bree will help him and Aravis run away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Six months is not as bad as eight, I suppose, though in this case I don't have worldbuilding headaches as an excuse. I plead massive distraction instead and hope to do better with the next chapter, which will be in Aravis's POV.

Bree's main reason for visiting Anvard was, as always, to spend time with Cor. Hwin and Aravis were also friends -- dear, close friends -- but Cor was his boy: the one Bree had snatched from a wretched hovel, taught to ride, and set free to run as he never could have done away from his native range in the North. And something was definitely amiss between Cor and Aravis, no matter how much Cor claimed he hadn't done anything to mortally offend the girl, which meant Bree ought to be giving Cor a listening ear and solid shoulder to lean on.

It was therefore doubly frustrating that Cor had given him the slip. Bree huffed and stamped a back hoof at the base of the tower to which he'd tracked Cor. Archenland was saner about Talking Beasts than any country save Narnia, but large sections of Anvard were nonetheless designed for bipeds, not for people with four legs, hooves, and a bit of difficulty negotiating tight spiral stairs in narrow stone walls.

"Inconsiderate, I call it," Bree said to himself, and snorted.

Well, Cor and his overly loud womb-brother couldn't stay on the battlements forever, and there was a possibility Hwin might have returned from her audience with King Lune. In any case, Bree ought, as a loyal Narnian, to take the chance to speak with Eena, the Donkey jenny who kept a weather eye on Calormen in addition to acting as Ambassador Cereus's deputy. She appreciated his knowledge of various Tarkaans and the petty failings they had let slip in his presence, thinking themselves observed only by a dumb animal.

Thus resolved, Bree ambled through Anvard's lower halls and courtyards toward the guest stables, nodding absently to various Archens he passed.

When he reached the stables, he found Hwin and Aravis tucked away in the half-privacy of the back corner. They were deep in conversation, voices rising and falling in agitated murmurs as if they were trying to stifle an argument. Bree waited for Hwin to notice him, then stamped a hoof and whickered to draw her attention. "Ahem."

Hwin's head jerked up, her eye rolling briefly in startlement. Then she heaved a deep breath and said, "It's only Bree, Aravis, do put your sword away."

The girl slid her blade back into its scabbard and slumped in her seat, leaning against the stone wall in an attitude of despair. "It's hopeless," she pronounced, hands fisted in the worn, yellow fabric of her tunic. "I know how these things go. The western provinces have had centuries to reconcile themselves to their place in the empire, but they still rebel every generation. The people of Archenland are no less proud. I won't be the cause of war. I'll release Cor from the dance and leave Anvard tomorrow."

Bree cast Hwin a puzzled look over the girl's head. Hwin curled her lip back and pointedly sniffed the air.

Bree drew in a deep breath, wondering what Hwin was on about, and promptly sneezed. Oh. So _that_ was how it was, eh? He'd thought Cor was simply growing up, not that he'd fixed his attention on a particular girl. Good for him! He and Aravis would suit each other nicely, in Bree's estimation.

But evidently the humans had got things tangled, as usual, if Aravis was going on about wars and escapes. Time for more sensible people to step in and set things right.

"I doubt anyone would go to war over something as small (or as welcome) as you and Cor mating with each other," Bree said, walking over to his friends. "Even if you're planning to run away, I hope you intend to tell him first so he can come along. We can make an adventure of it, all four of us."

"Like old times," Hwin added, brushing her nose against Aravis's shoulder. "Don't be so quick to discount Cor or yourself. Remember that the king is on your side, though he can't set aside the law."

"Law?" Bree asked, and found himself deluged by a tirade against the blind nationalistic prejudice of Archenland's Great Council which would disinherit Cor if he dared to marry a Calormene, Lune's foolishness for not using his moral authority to sway his countrymen, and Cor's cowardly hope that if he held his breath until he and Aravis were old and decrepit the issue might simply slink and starve to death in the tall grass. Behind Aravis's strung-tight shoulders, Hwin sighed, gripped a scoop between her teeth, and began transferring dried oats from a storage trough to a pair of feed bags.

Eventually Aravis wound herself down to a simmer.

Bree bumped her gently with his shoulder. "It's a pickle," he agreed. "I don't think running away is the right answer, though -- or at least not running away on your own. If you _and_ Cor run off, that will prove that you're serious and Archenland shouldn't take him for granted. I know I'd rather have him for a king than his brother."

Aravis laughed in startled humor. "Who wouldn't! Corin's fun and not nearly as stupid as he likes people to think, but he hasn't the patience to rule."

"Corin has no patience at all," Cor said, nearly startling Bree into a kick. By the Lion's Mane, when had he entered the stable, let alone walked up nearly close enough to touch Bree's tail? Clearly Bree hadn't been paying enough attention if a human could sneak up on him.

Cor was carrying a lumpy leather bag that looked as if he'd packed it blindly in the dark -- which comparison Bree could make with authority, having seen several such bags in their escape from Calormen. He held two saddles awkwardly balanced on his left shoulder, making him list to the right. Now he dumped them and the bag on the floor of the guest stable before picking the top saddle up properly.

"Corin's going to come after me soon," Cor said, carrying the saddle over to Bree. "If Aravis and I run away, will you carry us?"

"Of course!" said Bree. "We were just wondering if you'd come with us." Hwin nodded in agreement.

Aravis rolled her eyes. "They were; I wasn't. Are you so highhanded now that you don't think to ask me if I want to go with you?" she asked, but she picked up the other saddle as she spoke, so Bree didn't put much stock in her protest.

"Sorry. We can split up once we're over the pass into Narnia, if you'd rather I release you," Cor said as he draped the saddle over Bree's back and began buckling the straps under his belly. Bree obligingly let out his breath a bit to make it easier for his boy to reach. Saddles were annoying, but they did help distribute a rider's weight. Besides, if Cor was going to get anywhere mating with Aravis, it would be best not to have him sore and rubbed raw in delicate places when they reached Narnia.

"It would be awkward to find your father for the proper response, so you can take his role and strike me down if you'd like," Cor continued. "It's your right. I've been weaseling out on you for nearly two months now."

"Don't be an idiot," Aravis snapped, tightening the straps of the other saddle around Hwin. "I knew you were a sop when I opened the dance. I'm hardly going to kill you just when you've started acting sensibly."

Cor handed her the leather bag in response. She loosened the drawstring and peered inside while he hooked the newly filled feedbags to Hwin's and Bree's saddles. Aravis made a face. "Bread and hard cheese," she grumbled. "What is it with northerners and cheese?"

"It's portable," Cor said, stuffing a comb and brush into an empty feedbag and tying that to Bree's saddle as well.

"So is dried fruit, which has the added benefit of not making your breath taste sour when I kiss you," Aravis said. She closed the bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"You can find fruit in Narnia," Hwin said in a conciliating tone.

"Exactly," Cor agreed. "Hurry up, everyone. We need to be gone before Corin thinks to warn the guards at the gate." He strode toward the stable door, pushing it open and letting the wide, warm beams of afternoon sunlight stream through and make the dusty air sparkle.

Bree and Hwin exchanged a look over Aravis's head -- humans always made simple things so complicated -- and followed Cor out into the courtyard. Cor and Aravis mounted efficiently and the Horses headed for the gatehouse at a brisk walk. Anvard's castle gates stood open from sunup to sundown in times of peace, and the guards stood watch not for fear of attack but so one could accompany and announce guests. In point of fact, the pair on duty that afternoon were sitting on a bench with their pikes leaning against the heavy gate, laughing breathlessly at the conclusion of some old war story.

One recovered his breath enough to stand and bow as the little party passed them. "Out for a picnic?" he called.

"We may be a while. Don't hold the door open for us," Cor said with a smile as Bree and Hwin passed through the castle walls and out into the mountain meadow that fronted Anvard.

Bree turned northward, which shouldn't be immediately suspicious. There were many small meadows and side paths that branched off the road to Narnia, all of which were perfectly reasonable destinations for a small group of friends out for an afternoon amble. Nonetheless, if Corin were looking for Cor, it would be best to cross the border as soon as possible. That would turn any attempt to haul Cor and Aravis home into a messy international incident, and Bree was fairly sure that Lune -- who was generally sensible for a human -- wouldn't push the issue that far.

As soon as the castle walls vanished beyond the trees and the shoulder of the hills, Bree broke into a trot. Hwin kept pace beside him. To Narnia and the North!


	7. The Beating of Our Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running from your problems is rarely a good long-term solution, but sometimes the change in environment can be helpful -- especially now that Aravis and Cor are on the same page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, less than two weeks between chapters! *victory dance* And I think I can now say with... oh, 50% surety that this story will be about 15 chapters long. So now you know.

Aravis disliked the journey into Narnia, though she had gone willingly five times during her first year in the north, so that she might speak to Queen Lucy and spend a week or two in a place where her role was clearly defined. The Narnians treated guests nobly and never begrudged her origin, despite Queen Susan's ordeal, whereas the Archens held ancient enmity with Calormen and were rarely sure what to make of her status -- something partway between king's ward, long-term guest, and unofficial hostage.

Even in the height of midsummer the mountain road was prone to enveloping fog, and the trees pressed thickly all around like disapproving sentinels. Hwin and Bree passed the time trading gossip about their respective herds and territory negotiations with the centaurs and other grassland Beasts of Narnia. Cor rode silently, seemingly lost in thought. Aravis had nothing to contribute to the Horses' conversation and could not think of the right way to break into Cor's reverie, not when they hadn't spoken properly in so long. She held her tongue until they were through the pass and safely down past the narrow cliffside path, with the great valley of Narnia spread out before them like a landscape on silk.

She sat back in the saddle. Hwin took her suggestion and stopped. After a moment, Bree noticed he was walking alone and turned to eye them questioningly, his nostrils flared to catch any strange scent on the wind.

"We've crossed the border," Aravis said. "Now that we're nominally beyond Archenland's reach, I want an explanation."

Bree tossed his head. "An explanation of what? You wanted to run away, Cor wanted to run away, Hwin and I offered to help, and here we all are in Narnia. What could be simpler?"

Aravis ground her teeth. "I know why I wanted to leave Archenland. I know why you and Hwin helped. Cor, on the other hand, has spent the past two months treading dangerously close to denying me, which, after I accepted his courting gift, could well be considered grounds for blood feud. I know that you love your father and you wish to be worthy in his eyes," she added directly to Cor. "I know why you were delaying, which is why I was willing to take the dishonor of breaking the dance on myself. Yet here we are, fleeing Archenland as we once fled Calormen, with an even more uncertain future before us. What changed your mind?"

Cor swung his left leg over the saddle and slid to the slanted ground. It was strange to look down on him from Hwin's back. They had been of a height as children, but he had three inches on her these days, just enough that she found herself tilting her chin when they spoke face to face. It was also fitting that he stand lower now, like a supplicant come to her father's court to beg her favor. There was no obligation to respond to the overture of a dance, but Cor had met her, matched her, and then stepped back.

"The king is under the law, for the law is what makes him king," Cor said slowly, stepping up the grassy hillside with his eyes raised to catch Aravis's gaze. "Father said that to me on our first night in Anvard -- do you remember? A king in answerable to his country and his people. If he forgets that, he becomes a tyrant. I want to do right by Archenland. I wanted to make people see that you're the best thing in my life, that you could never be a weakness. I wanted to obey the law, to work with the Great Council rather than against it, and make Father proud."

Hwin shivered and took a nervous step sideways. Aravis loosened the grip of her legs and held herself straight and strong under Cor's earnest gaze. "What changed your mind?" she repeated.

"The law in Archenland isn't the same as the law in Calormen," Cor said. "It's about personal honor as much as rules, just like debt and testimony -- did you know that? What am I saying; of course you knew that. I should have known it, if I'd been thinking. The law is a promise between the people and the king." He shrugged, a slight self-deprecating gesture. "How could anyone trust me to keep that promise if I broke a more important one to you?"

Aravis swung her leg over Hwin's back and slid to the grassy earth. Cor stepped forward and took her hands.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked.

"We have two witnesses," Aravis said rather than answer directly. "Do you have objections?"

For a moment Cor looked like the baffled boy she'd first grown to know on their journey. Then comprehension kindled a slow fire behind his eyes, and his fingers tightened around hers. "Bree, Hwin," he said, "will you stand witness to our marriage and attest its truth before any court?"

Bree looked utterly confused, but he nodded his head. "Yes, of course, but don't you need, oh, a dress, and some papers to sign, and another person to say a bunch of nonsense to make it official? Possibly something with ribbons or a fire?"

"That's only if they want to be grand," Hwin said from behind Aravis's shoulder. "I saw humans do this in Calormen. All they need is themselves and a pair of friends to swear they said the words before they got down to mating."

Horses, Aravis reflected, had a very earthy way of seeing the world. She caught a blush rising in Cor's cheeks and was grateful yet again that her own slight embarrassment was not equally visible to him. "Well then," she said, threading a note of challenge into her voice. "Will you keep your promise?"

Cor raised their joined hands to heart-height and said, "In the name of Soolyeh, I take you for my wife. May our marriage be warm." He stared into Aravis's eyes, the slant of the hill putting them exactly on a level.

Aravis held his gaze. "So may it be. In the name of Garshomon, I take you for my husband. May our marriage be fruitful."

The words were familiar. Aravis had heard them many times, for her father had been prone to grant the request of his slaves and the peasants on his estate that he stand as their witness and thus bring greater dignity to their unions. She had heard them again when Ilroozeh Tarkheena had married her father, for though the trappings of the wedding might be grand beyond belief, the rite itself was always the same. And she had been made to embroider them and paint them in calligraphy lessons as she grew to be of marriageable age, for no Tarkaan wished his daughter to embarrass him when she left his protection to join her new husband's household.

But this was a piece of Calormen, not of the north. To hear these words, to speak the names of Calormene gods in the land of the Lion himself, was vertiginously strange.

"So may it be," Cor said, his voice wavering as if he shared Aravis's feeling of displacement. "In the name of your father, I take you for my wife. May our marriage be honorable."

Kidrash Tarkaan would approve of Cor, Aravis thought. "So may it be. In the name of your mother" -- whom she had never met, but King Lune had loved and respected her and therefore Aravis could but assume Queen Elwen had been as bright and honorable as her sons -- "I take you for my husband. May our marriage be true."

"So may it be," Cor said, and then paused, letting silence seep into the sunlit afternoon instead of continuing the last set of promises.

"Is that it?" Bree asked. "Pretty enough, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. Only, don't Calormene rituals go in threes?"

"They do," Aravis said, knowing exactly why Cor was hesitating. She squeezed his hands, her sword calluses rubbing against his, and switched the lead. "In the name of Aslan, I take you for my husband. May our marriage be strong."

She should have said Tash, but while she would always respect the god of war and vengeance, she had lost his favor when she gave allegiance to the lands of his enemies. Even if she had still held him as the king of all gods, it would feel wrong to swear by his power in Narnia, and the Lion was equally strong and fierce, his power more than enough to hold as a support. Aravis had taken Aslan for her liege in the wars of heaven and so she would make her future in his name. She would marry Cor by the ways of Calormen, but they belonged to Archenland too, now. It was fitting that she acknowledge that heritage in her vows.

Cor blinked, and then smiled, a small, private curl of his lips just for her. "So may it be," he said. "In the names of _all_ the gods, I take you for my wife. May our marriage be forever." He raised their joined hands, sliding his fingers around to turn her hands palms upward, and kissed the soft inner skin of Aravis's wrists: a feather-brush of skin on skin, his breath to the pulse of her blood. His beard tickled across her open palms as he looked up into her eyes.

Aravis swallowed. "So may it be," she said.

She pulled; Cor came willingly. She met his breath with her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cor and Aravis use a tweaked version of the Calormene marriage ritual. The traditional version goes like this:
> 
> **Man:** In the name of Soolyeh, I take you for my wife. May our marriage be warm.  
>  **Woman:** So may it be. In the name of Garshomon, I take you for my husband. May our marriage be fruitful.  
>  **Man:** So may it be. In the name of your father, I take you for my wife. May our marriage be honorable.  
>  **Woman:** So may it be. In the name of your mother, I take you for my husband. May our marriage be true.  
>  **Man:** So may it be. In the name of Achadith, I take you for my wife. May our marriage be strong.  
>  **Woman:** So may it be. In the name of Tash, I take you for my husband. May our marriage be forever.  
>  **Man:** So may it be.
> 
> And then they are married. The traditional divorce ceremony goes approximately the same way. Either the woman or the man can end the marriage at any time by saying, "In the name of Nazreen, I divorce you. In the name of Nur, I divorce you. In the name of Azaroth, I divorce you" -- again, three times makes it true. It's not done lightly, since the person who instigates a divorce may start a blood feud with that action, but it's still pretty simple and egalitarian.


	8. Simple Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics intrudes on romance, but Hwin knows that as long as her friends work together, they can overcome any obstacle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed by now that I completely and utterly fail at any kind of regular (or even reasonable) update speed. I must inform you that this is a longstanding problem of mine and is unlikely ever to change. Sorry about that.

Hwin was more than willing to give Aravis and Cor a bit of privacy to consummate their marriage. The day was warm, the grass was soft, so why not? And from the sidelong glances the two humans exchanged, they had done something of the sort at least once before. But Aravis and Cor insisted on continuing their journey north and east to Cair Paravel.

"We won't reach the coast by nightfall unless Hwin and I gallop ourselves to death," Bree said as he and Hwin picked their way across a shallow, stony mountain stream. "There's a watch station where the Anvard road meets the river road. We can stop there for the night."

"That will work," Aravis agreed, shifting her weight on Hwin's back in response to a patch of bad footing.

The watch station had been established early in the Pevensies' too-short reign, as Narnians shook themselves out of a century of magical isolation and remembered that borders were not always impervious and roads often carried guests whose names ought to be hurried on to Cair Paravel and brought to the four monarchs' attention. As such, it combined a square three-story stone tower and ten-foot curtain wall with an extensive guest house and a courier service.

Hwin and the others arrived an hour before sunset and found the gates open and welcoming: clearly some of the Talking Birds had grown curious, or someone in the tower had a good spyglass trained on the road. A gray tabby Cat leapt down from the wall to the top of the open gate and then to a nearby mounting block as Hwin and Bree ambled into the courtyard, their shadows stretching long and thin on the hard packed ground.

"Prince Cor, Lady Aravis, Captain Bree, Lady Hwin," the Cat said in a rasping voice, flicking her tail lazily from side to side as she watched the humans dismount. "My name is Anaprisma and I bid you welcome to Narnia. Will you entrust me with the nature of your visit so I can advise Lord Steward Peridan what to expect upon your arrival in Cair Paravel?"

Aravis and Cor glanced at each other. Bree swished his tail and shivered his withers, attempting to look unconcerned. Hwin laughed soundlessly to herself and said, "Thank you for your welcome and concern, ma'am. Our friends have only recently married and are seeking some time for themselves away from Archenland's political affairs."

Anaprisma tilted her head, her eyes narrowed to slits. Then she bared her teeth in a wicked grin. "I believe I see. Lord Peridan will most definitely wish to speak with you tomorrow. For tonight, please enjoy what poor hospitality Narnia can provide on such short notice. Master Cowslip in the guest house will provide supper for the humans, there are oats and hay in the stables for the Horses, and anyone who wishes can bathe in the pool at the back of the house." She leapt down from the mounting block and vanished into the tower.

"Was it necessary to mention our marriage?" Cor asked in a plaintive undertone.

"Hiding it will only encourage people to think you and Aravis might be separated, and there's no hiding the way you obviously want to... to lie with each other," Hwin told him, tactfully censoring her words. "Besides, if you want help, it's best to be open about the lay of the land so nobody stumbles into any holes and snaps an ankle later on."

"You can leave Archenland, but you can't escape politics," Aravis agreed in a rueful tone. "You should be used to the price of rank by now."

Cor made a terrible face. Aravis laughed, and his grimace dissolved into a matching grin as he reached for her hand.

Hwin nudged Bree with her hindquarters and tilted her head toward the stables attached to the guest house. He blew noisily through his lips, but followed her across the yard readily enough.

"Bother politics," he said as Hwin gripped a bell rope between her teeth and rang to summon a person with opposable thumbs to help remove their saddles and bags. "You'd think getting to Narnia would be enough, but no. After the trouble of a daring escape to freedom you still have to work out what to do next."

"That's how life goes," Hwin said as a young faun in a cook's apron stepped through the open doorway of the guesthouse, sketched an abbreviated bow, and began unbuckling straps. "The only place without problems is Aslan's country." Which was strange beyond strange to think of, because even after death wouldn't people still be people, with all the flaws that helped distinguish one from another and give life flavor? But if anyone could manage to keep individuality and free will alive while simultaneously making peace among all souls, Aslan certainly had the best chance. And Hwin had decided as a filly -- scared, brutalized, alone in a foreign land among humans who did not recognize her as a person -- that she would keep faith with him.

Bree snorted, but let that track of conversation drop.

In the morning Aravis and Cor wore the unmistakable residual scent of sex, despite their obviously vigorous attempts to wash it away. Hwin jostled Bree before he could say anything on the subject. Their humans had enough to worry about. There was no sense overburdening their minds by tripping them into the sinkholes of their species' odd taboos.

Getting their gear ready took twice as long as usual since the humans were constantly distracted by stealing and sharing heated glances over Hwin's and Bree's backs. Bree flicked his tail at Cor several times in a futile attempt to redirect his attention. Hwin simply waited. She remembered the strange, hot longing she had never indulged in while she lived in Calormen, and her nervousness the first time she mated after returning to Narnia -- the way she had watched the stallion in her adopted herd, feeling a sudden sympathy for Bree's sense of dislocation from their brethren after so many years among their dumb cousins. But in the end it had all been quite natural and easy, and her two foals were healthy, happy, and so much at home among her herd sisters that she could leave them to visit friends without any fear that they would vanish before she returned.

Finally Aravis swung onto Hwin's back and she moved toward the watch station's gate, following close on Bree's heels.

A gray blur dropped down from the wall, landing with a light-foot thump on Hwin's withers. Hwin startled, dancing sideways on the path and rolling her eyes back in an attempt to see what had touched her. The Cat Anaprisma leapt to Aravis's shoulder, then down between her arms and out of Hwin's sight.

Aravis was a steady, calming weight on Hwin's back.

"I will accompany you and your lady wife to Cair Paravel and present you to the Lord Steward, Prince Cor," Anaprisma announced in her rasping voice. "I suggest you hurry. The sooner you present your side of the story, the easier it will be to avoid any trouble between our countries."

"Trouble?" Cor said.

Anaprisma purred. Something twitched lightly over Hwin's shoulders -- the Cat's tail, most likely, though it felt remarkably like a crawling insect. She shivered her skin, attempting to dispel the sensation.

"Two Narnians aided a Calormene in abducting a prince of Archenland," Aravis said slowly. "Am I correct?"

"That isn't what happened at all!" Bree said, stamping a forehoof in annoyance.

"But it's what some of the Great Council would prefer to imagine instead of the truth," Cor said, his shoulders slumped. "They still have Corin," he added plaintively. "I don't see why people expect me to fit their every wish any more than my brother did when he was Father's only heir, and the Council confirmed _him_ when he was only nine."

"Because you care enough about your country to try accommodating its people, even the idiots," Aravis said. "Which may have been foolish, in retrospect, but what is done is done and no one can return to rewrite the path of her youth with the knowledge of her age. We will make haste to Cair Paravel and take responsibility for what we have done."

Cor straightened in Bree's saddle, drinking strength from Aravis's words. "Yes," he said. "You're right. There are things I need to make clear, and now is better than never."

"To Cair Paravel, then?" Hwin asked, taking a tentative step forward.

"To Cair Paravel!" Bree cried, and he shot forward in a rapid trot. After a moment Hwin followed, Aravis balanced steady and sure on her back.

They had all saved each other once before, in more dire straits than these. They would save each other again. Hwin was sure of it.


	9. Make Good Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narnia is both sister and friend to Archenland. Peridan intends to remind the Archens what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All chapters from this point on were written and posted as part of the 2016 WIP Big Bang. :)
> 
> (Previous chapters have been SIGNIFICANTLY REVISED as part of that process. You should probably go reread them if you're coming to this story in the middle.)

In the first years after his kings and queens had vanished, Peridan had scarcely gone a day at a time without comparing his awkward attempts at guiding Narnia to their practiced reign, and found himself wanting in half a hundred ways. Of late, he thought he and the small council had been settling in to the new pattern, and he had seen that it must have been this way for the Pevensies as well: thrust unexpectedly into responsibility and bearing up as best they could.

Prince Cor and Lady Aravis would doubtless learn that truth in their turn -- assuming they could extricate themselves from their current political tangle.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said as the small council adjourned and he escorted the Archens out of the Holly Chamber. "I am sure it would not have come to war between our countries whether or not you made a public statement, but hotheads can make life difficult for traders and smallfolk along the borders without any official declaration of hostilities."

"I know," Cor said with a sigh. "Sometimes I wish I were still a fisher in Calormen. Nobody cares who fishers marry."

"If you were still a peasant in Venizar, we would never have met and I would not have married you," Aravis said tartly, "and if wishes were fishes, we could cross the sea on their backs without need for a ship. Stop wallowing and live with our decision."

"I will complain if I want to!" Cor snapped, but he reached out to lace his fingers through hers, and she made no move to pull away.

Lady Eena's reports were correct, then; this was a love match as well as a political alliance.

"Come walk with me in the gardens," Peridan said, "where we can speak more freely, and of more things than diplomatic letters."

The couple murmured agreement, and they all three set off through the corridors and the broad, shallow stairwells of Cair Paravel until they reached a small door in an inner wall. Peridan unlocked the gate, spoke a few instructions to the guards on duty (a Boar and a minotaur), and waved his guests into the quiet beauty of the queens' garden, so-called because it had been one of Queen Susan's personal retreats and Queen Lucy's sources of medicinal herbs.

The courtyard was a simple square, closed in by solid walls each with only one door. A small fountain burbled to itself in the far corner, spilling a stream of water that flowed through a brick channel past several carefully pruned trees (the apple just starting to bear fruit) and into a pond near but not exactly in the courtyard's center, where lilies and rushes grew and an occasional bright fin or flash of dragonfly wing caught the afternoon sun. The other corners were divided into tidy herb and flower beds, and trellises trained honeysuckle, morning glory, and roses up the walls.

A wickerwork table and four chairs stood beside the pond. Peridan claimed one of the seats and gestured for Cor and Aravis to join him. "We will be watched from the windows, but if we speak softly, none should overhear," he said, "especially away from the walls and their stray echoes."

"Your consideration does us honor," Aravis said. Peridan could almost hear the phantom 'O my Lord,' that should have finished the sentence, but her curtsey was a flawless exemplar of the Northern style rather than a Calormene bow. She swept her borrowed skirts aside and sat gracefully on the chair to his right without regard for the rules of precedence, which would have had her husband sit first.

Cor didn't seem to notice the implied power claim, merely sketched an abbreviated Northern bow and claimed the chair directly across from Peridan. "Now that the formalities are out of the way, what do you need to tell us that you couldn't say in open council?" he asked.

Judging by the swish of fabric, Aravis kicked him under the table. His expression didn't change at all.

Peridan raised his hand and coughed to cover a smile.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage and wish you many happy years to come," he said. "I think you are unlikely to hear that much upon your return to Archenland -- which you will need to do sooner or later, as I hope you're aware -- so I thought you should hear it at least once before I return to complaining of the political headache you have created."

"Your compassion does us honor," Cor said, in a near-echo of his wife's phrase, though the wry tilt to his mouth overwrote any phantom Calormene courtesy that might otherwise have dangled, unspoken but damning, at the end of his words.

"I am not so far removed from my own wedding that I could forget my feelings from those days," Peridan said. Then he straightened, a subtle signal that he was returning to business. "However, love is not the only factor a ruler must take into consideration when arranging his (or her) personal affairs. Narnia needs you, Prince Cor, to inherit your father's throne. Much though we esteem your brother, his rule would be tumultuous and unpleasant for all concerned. What is necessary to reconcile you to your people and how can Narnia assist you in that quest?"

Cor and Aravis exchanged a glance that seemed to speak in a private language.

"We have been considering the issue, and have concluded that there are two main problems," Cor said as he turned back to face Peridan. "Firstly, there is the matter of our marriage. As Corin recently made clear to me, centuries of hatred and mistrust separate Archenland and Calormen, and many consider Aravis's birth more important than her chosen loyalties. I have heard whispers that she would somehow make me her puppet, and therefore our marriage would be the same as selling Archenland to Kidrash Tarkaan of Calavar, and thence to Rabadash himself. This is not a reasoned stance and cannot be countered by reason."

"To complicate matters, there is also a reasoned objection," Aravis continued, picking up her husband's argument without a dropped beat. "Many people would prefer Cor to make an alliance marriage for diplomatic and economic purposes. They say I am an exile who brings no power, no money, and no influence to the match. This point is of course in direct contradiction to the assumptions of the first stance -- I cannot have both strong Calormene ties and no ties at all -- but the members of these two factions can set aside that difference well enough to work together."

"The second, deeper problem," said Cor, "is that a not-inconsiderable number of people believe I am either incapable or unworthy of ruling Archenland--"

"--which is why he wasn't confirmed as crown prince years ago--" Aravis added, rolling her eyes.

"--and therefore need what would in effect be a permanent regency to manage the business of government while I serve as a figurehead," Cor continued. "I used to think this attitude was based on pure ambition, or plans formed around an expectation of Corin as king, but now I think some of it may mirror the unreasoned revulsion toward the idea of Aravis as queen. I was raised in Calormen, and that makes me unfit regardless of my birth or my love for Archenland. My choice to accept Aravis's suit only strengthens that impression."

"Don't forget the ones who think you're a fool because you had no education until your twelfth year," Aravis said. "They seem to be under the impression that because you listen more than you speak, you'd let an Archen woman from the right family and faction lead you by the nose. That is, of course, absurd, but perhaps explains why the idea of me using you as my puppet sounds plausible to so many. In any case, we'll never convince anyone that I'm native Archen-born, nor that I have a secret hoard of gold to replenish the treasury at Anvard. The other obstacles may be malleable, particularly now that Cor has finally displayed some backbone instead of lying about like a soaked carpet."

Cor smiled at her words as if they were a private joke rather than an insult. "You know perfectly well that's not how Dame Blenith or Warden Pel will interpret our escape," he said.

"And will you let that stand?" Aravis challenged.

Before Cor could respond, Peridan cleared his throat and said, "I can give you two pieces of advice. The first is that you should keep your arguments private, and the Lady Aravis should take care not to infringe on Prince Cor's precedence in seating or speaking. I suspect your mutual disregard for protocol feeds the perception that Aravis would be the true ruler of Archenland once Cor inherits the throne."

"That's ridiculous," said Cor. "Shouldn't our arguments make it obvious that I have my own mind and only do what she wants if I also think it's a good idea? Besides, it's not as if quarrels are _fights_ , even if Archens are bad at telling the difference."

But Aravis looked thoughtful, and said, "The North seems so open in most respects that I sometimes forget you have your own high court patterns and your own social taboos. Fine. I can play the demure lady, though I suspect anyone who hates Calormen will only see it _as_ a role and suspect me exactly as much as before."

"That is unfortunately all too likely," Peridan agreed. "My second piece of advice is to remember that you do have foreign ties. You are a true friend of Narnia. You are the one who discovered Rabadash's plot against Queen Susan, even if Cor is the one who brought the news the last distance to Anvard and Cair Paravel. Your countrymen may have chosen to overlook that truth, but Narnia does not forget. We would take it as an insult if Archenland should doubt the word of our kings and queens who welcomed you to the North." 

It was Cor's turn to look thoughtful. "Ah. That could be useful. Particularly if..."

He trailed off, then leaned to whisper in Aravis's ear. She startled, and frowned, and then slowly began to nod.

"I will leave you to your thoughts," Peridan said after a minute. "The garden and its privacy are yours until five o'clock, at which point I will send someone to escort you to supper."

He left the garden, and its memories of his queens, behind him and went to seek the comfort of his own wife's counsel and his daughter's smile.


	10. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein two ladies of the Narnian court exchange a series of letters discussing recent events and future expectations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epistolary fiction is an interesting challenge, particularly when the writers think they're clever and enjoy talking somewhat obliquely around their points. :)

To the Lady Eena, Junior Ambassador to Archenland, on the Twenty-eighth of Sunhigh, Greetings,

I am recently returned to Cair Paravel from yet another trip on behalf of the Archives, and was pleased to find your letter awaiting my eyes. The weather has indeed been felicitous this past week, which our friends inform me has led them to indulge in several impromptu picnics. We miss, as always, your invigorating company and your invaluable advice on the most comfortable patches of grass.

As I am sure you have heard from official dispatches, Prince Cor, Lady Aravis, and their friends Hwin and Bree arrived in Cair Paravel late yesterday morning. They met with the small council and with Lord Steward Peridan, and in the evening took supper with the entire court and a number of interested visitors in the Great Hall. They were most gracious and, despite the somewhat precipitous nature of their visit, have deepened the positive impression they had previously left amongst our people.

King Lune should already have received his son's letter of explanation for his abrupt excursion over the border. For all our sakes, I hope this will remove the pot of suspicion from the hearth before it boils over into violence.

I trust your sore hoof continues to recover.

Yours most sincerely,  
Anaprisma of Hickleby Grove

\-----

To the Lady Anaprisma, Undersecretary of the Royal Archives, on the Thirtieth of Sunhigh, Greetings,

My hoof is indeed recovering well, though the narrow Archen stairwells continue to present a challenge. I regret to report, however, that Ambassador Cereus will be unable to attend court functions for the next week while he recovers from a broken nose, shattered cheekbone, and severe concussion acquired in his most recent bout with Prince Corin. I have taken the liberty of informing him, as I know you would if you were present to do so yourself, that he dug his own den and should at least pretend to enjoy lying in it.

King Lune sends his regards and letters both to Lord Steward Peridan and his son. I trust Catchlight has delivered them unopened.

Anvard is quite lively these days. The king is receiving many notable guests with scarcely any advance notice, and the castle staff are working at full pace to keep up with the added work. There has even been talk of hiring temporary labor from the nearby villages, which is rarely done outside of Council sessions in the spring and autumn. The king has decreed a feast and a dance in three days' time, but there is no word yet of any other planned events.

I recall you complained last month about incursions by mice into the castle library. Has this problem been solved, or is it a continuing issue?

With greatest regard,  
Eena Flyflick of South Riding, Marshedge

\-----

To the Lady Eena, Junior Ambassador to Archenland, on the Second of Greenroof, Greetings,

One never completely disposes of mice, anymore than one disposes of spiders, but neither I nor Secretary Tyrgelt have discovered any further shredded parchment or nibbled bindings since my cousins and I joined a trio of Terriers for a day of hunting, so I consider the issue well in hand.

(Are you familiar with the Stungpaw pack? I believe these three may be children of your former neighbors in Marshedge, though from the West Riding rather than the South.)

Catchlight managed to restrain her curiosity: a rare and valuable trait in a Raven. I will deliver your winnings upon our next meeting. My thanks for accurately relaying my sentiments to Ambassador Cereus upon his injury. Please also convey my regards and my wish for his swift and relatively painless recovery. You may pass on whatever message to Prince Corin as seems to you most useful.

Cair Paravel is also unusually lively for this time of year, perhaps because the lack of incursions from Ettinsmoor and Harfang has left the army at loose ends. There are frequent gatherings by the docks and at nearby points along the shore, starting at dusk and extending well into the night in deference to the summer heat. Their only common factors seem to be loud singing and bonfires, though solstice is over a week past and one might hope for a return to decorum until the Summer Festival. It is all quite trying for anyone attempting to concentrate on paperwork or fall asleep on a regular schedule. 

Prince Cor and Lady Aravis have been meeting daily with the small council and receiving appointments in the afternoons. They have renewed their acquaintance with five of our noble houses, both Black and Red Dwarf enclaves, three Dryad groves, and various notables from our less organized population, all of whom seem favorably disposed toward our young guests. They have also spoken with the ambassadors of Galma, Terebinthia, and Sarovence, though what passed in those meetings I would not venture to say. Their evenings are filled with dancing, either in the Great Hall or down on the shore amidst the bonfires.

I am sending a small bag of boiled sweets along with this letter. I hope you will enjoy them.

Yours most sincerely,  
Anaprisma of Hickleby Grove

\-----

To the Lady Anaprisma, Undersecretary of the Royal Archives, on the Fourth of Greenroof, Greetings,

I thank you most kindly for the sweets, which I did enjoy very much. It is always a minor struggle to acquire delicacies in Archenland, as too few Humans seem to grasp that Talking Beasts are not entirely restricted by the dietary needs of our dumb cousins, or that we appreciate cookery and presentation as much as any other thinking creature.

But enough of my woes. Ambassador Cereus thanks you for your thoughts and wishes to inform you that he is doing as well as can be expected. He has also received several visitors from the Archen court, wishing either to console him in his pain or commiserate about his treatment at Prince Corin's fists. He reports that the incident appears to have cemented the court's previous unfortunate image of the prince as an unstable hothead, though how that will affect the various opinions of his brother is anyone's guess.

I am pleased to hear that Prince Cor and Lady Aravis are finding their stay in Narnia so congenial, and will pass that on to King Lune, who is naturally eager for news about his son. He danced little last night, though he spoke extensively with many of his guests as they paused from their own dancing. He also addressed the gathering at large between the feast and the music, inviting them to extend their stay another week.

The scriptorium has been bustling, suggesting that invitations will soon be sent for some even larger gathering. While the king has yet to make an official announcement, unofficially I can confirm that he intends to call a session of the Great Council. This is, of course, most extraordinary. I believe King Lune has only called the Council out of season twice in his reign: at the death of the Witch, and in the immediate aftermath of Prince Cor's kidnapping. I trust Lord Steward Peridan, Lady Iris, and the small council will take appropriate measures.

Anvard in summer is cooler than Narnia, being both at greater altitude and surrounded by forests, but I confess I would trade the mountain breezes and wildflowers for the chance to run over the broad meadows of Marshedge and splash in the shallows of the Shribble. I miss the sight of the sky uninterrupted by ridges of stone, and, of course, the presence of other Beasts as more than a quaint minority.

(I do know several members of the Stungpaw pack, and am pleased to hear that the latest generation are living up to their forebears' legacy of civil service.)

I have appended the monthly budget report and request on a second page, as well as a copy of the embassy journal. Please deliver them to the appropriate hands, hooves, and paws.

With greatest regard,  
Eena Flyflick of South Riding, Marshedge

\-----

To the Lady Eena, Junior Ambassador to Archenland, on the Sixth of Greenroof, Greetings,

I occasionally think you and I should exchange our jobs. I would mind the mountains far less than you, and while you have difficulty with pen and paper, your keen sense of organization would more than compensate. I know Secretary Tyrgelt occasionally despairs over my tendency to scatter papers hither and yon and rarely get around to tidying them up.

Thank you for the budget and journal. You should receive your next letter of credit within the week.

I am pleased to hear that Ambassador Cereus continues to recover. I am equally pleased to hear that the feast and dance were a success, and trust that the Council session, however irregular, will go similarly well. As for Prince Corin, he has no one to blame but himself for his reputation, though of course I feel the greatest sympathy for the strain his actions put on King Lune.

Prince Cor and Lady Aravis continue to dazzle our court here in Cair Paravel, though last night they remained in their rooms to eat a private supper rather than accept any of their myriad invitations. Today they have arranged to go riding with Lord Steward Peridan and his wife. The Lady Iris has also ordered traveling gear for a small diplomatic party to be gathered and prepared, presumably with the intention of sending a tangible reminder of Narnia's support to King Lune in this unsettled season.

As you know, I have been seconded to many such parties in the past, since my duties are light and can be split amongst others without much trouble. Perhaps I shall soon be traveling again, in which case I will be able to relate to you in person more interesting and detailed news than is practical to include in a letter.

Yours most sincerely,  
Anaprisma of Hickleby Grove


	11. Close Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon receiving formal notice of the planned Great Council session, Cor and Aravis steal an evening to themselves... for planning and for other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tarkheena Visareth is borrowed from Heliopause's wonderful fic [The Atrementus Collection: Calormene Proverbs: a handbook for travelers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7527517).

In one sense, nothing about this visit to Narnia was new. The people Cor spoke and ate and danced with were old friends (or at least old acquaintances), and he picked up the threads of previous conversations the same as he had every few months for the past eight years. Even the endless meetings were somewhat familiar, since he'd begun accompanying Father on visits to the various mountain and island kingdoms after his eighteenth birthday.

But in another sense everything was strange, the familiar wrenched into new and uncomfortable shapes, because this time he was bargaining for himself rather simply attempting to make a friendly impression and thereby win Archenland some nebulous goodwill. He had to see his friends with new eyes, as potential allies in a struggle of ideas rather than swords.

It was exhausting.

It was also exhilarating, which he hadn't expected.

"I feel like I ought to feel bad about enjoying all this," he said to Aravis as they lay together in their borrowed bed, lit only by the moon and the faint, guttering refraction of a bonfire on the shoreline below. "We're not playing a game. These are our lives, and any arrangements we make will shape the kind of king I'm able to be when-- well, many years from now, Aslan forfend."

"The King of Archenland, may he live forever," Aravis said dryly.

Cor bit lightly at the back of her neck, then brushed a kiss over her skin, careful not to scrape her with the still-rough hairs of his beard. She laughed and pulled his arms more closely around her, where he could feel her breath as it moved within her lungs: another thing both familiar and strange, to feel he knew her, and she knew him, more truly than anyone else in the world.

"It makes me wonder if I should have started doing this years ago, or whether Father should have pushed me into it," he continued. "So many things might be different."

"I believe Aslan would say, nobody is ever told what _might_ have happened," Aravis said. "And on that note, let us speak of practical things. It's all very well to open personal relations with foreign lands, but Galma, Sarovence, and the others are worries for the future. At present, we need to return to Archenland to attend the Great Council session your father has called in twelve days' time, and swing the gathered Archen notables to confirm you as your father's heir _now_ instead of letting the issue hang as potential blackmail for another five years. They don't need to like me so long as they respect you."

Cor sighed, and tipped his head forward to press his nose against the back of Aravis's ear, burying his face in her thick hair, still scented with traces of the perfume he had so carefully imported from Calavar for her. "Narnia's support should sway a handful, perhaps as many as ten or twelve. The Beasts and Beings in particular should find that convincing. Of course, they mostly didn't need convincing in the first place."

"We'll have to balance it carefully, though, lest we paint you _Peridan's_ puppet," Aravis said. "Enough show to impress, not enough to threaten. I spoke with Lady Iris this evening while you were failing to keep up with those Fauns and Naiads, and she's agreed to accompany the Narnian diplomatic party when we return to Anvard."

Cor weighed the likely impact in his mind -- the woman who was Queen of Narnia in all but name, pledging her tacit support to another not-quite-queen -- then hummed agreement. "That's certainly more efficient than dragging a dozen notables along, and of course she won't upset the idiots who still see anyone other than humans as a potential agent for the Witch and the Wild. But a dozen changed minds still leaves us with the Council split nearly even, and a bare majority is no fit base on which to build a stable reign. We need at least two thirds, though three quarters would be better, unless we want to spend decades trying to establish our authority or putting down conspiracies to enthrone Corin in my place."

Aravis snorted. "As if Corin would stand for that."

"But he looks like such an attractive figurehead if you don't know how much he cares," Cor said. "And you know as well as I do that rebellions don't necessarily need their supposed leaders to agree to that role. There are reasons so many Tisrocs' male relatives die young."

"Let us attempt to avoid that outcome," Aravis said firmly. "If the promised freedom of the North is to have any meaning, we must _make_ Archenland better than the country we left, or on what basis can we justify our choice to turn against the land and people who shaped us?"

"You say that as if either of us ever had any intention of killing Corin," Cor said, and kissed the nape of Aravis's neck to stop himself from laughing at her serious tone and sparking her to indignation. Aravis was rarely more beautiful than when she threw herself into an argument, her eyes bright with passion and her smile like a blade poised to cut the unwary, but as much as he enjoyed making up after a quarrel, such distractions were best saved until they had resolved on a course of action.

"I might have entertained that thought once or twice," she grumbled, and twisted within his arms to face him, shifting her hands from their possessive clasp over his own to an equally possessive grip on his shoulder and thigh. "But Corin aside, are we more likely to win hearts if we say we're simply betrothed in a Calormene style and would need a Northern wedding to make us truly married, or if we insist our marriage is valid regardless of whose customs we followed when we made our pledge and cast that as an example of you keeping your word once given?"

Cor sighed. "I don't know. I don't want to deny you. And I don't think saying betrothal rather than marriage will do anything to soften a reaction based on reflexive hatred and fear. But I don't think reminding people that we're both as much Calormene as Archen will help either."

Aravis matched his sigh. "True, alas."

They lay in silence for a time, while the thin light of the waning moon shifted slowly across their sheets and skin. Cor remembered the nights of their long escape from Calormen, when they had lain similarly close (though separated by clothes) and sometimes similarly sleepless, lashed by formless worry for the future. What might have happened if they had slipped through Tashbaan unhindered, swung inland toward the Great Oasis and its well-traveled caravan routes, and then through Sarovence to Narnia by way of Archenland's far northwest corner? What place might they have found for themselves in a Narnia disturbed by Rabadash's raid and Archenland's travails thereafter?

Nothing nearly so complicated as this, he thought.

But might-have-been was not a wise land to linger in. Better far to think of is, and was, and may-yet-be. All things might still turn their way, with a bit of luck and planning.

And on that note...

"Suppose we win," Cor murmured to Aravis. "Not merely a compromise, but everything we want. What would that be?"

She hummed to herself, a low pitch in the back of her throat, only audible because they were so close that her lashes brushed light as bee wings against his own cheek when she closed or opened her eyes. "You confirmed as crown prince, with those who wish a regency revealed as scheming fools. Our marriage recognized so the Council cannot turn on you later because of me. No disapproval for the pieces of Calormen we retain. A chance to graft some of those pieces onto Archenland where the might do most good. An end to piracy and the slave trade in the coastal islands. Reconciliation with my father. At least two children. And an end to the ruinous import tariffs on coffee. I am very tired of tea."

Cor smiled into her hair. "Why not aim high? Listen," he added when she drew breath to restate their list of practical reasons for caution. "What if we start with our marriage rather than my confirmation? Do you remember what Peridan said last week? The kings and queens of Narnia welcomed you to the North with no reservations. That doesn't carry enough weight to overcome generations of hatred and fear, but Aslan himself welcomed you and judged you worthy of his attention."

He stroked one hand down the sweep of her back, fingers spanning the grooves and ridges of the claw tracks that still scarred her skin. "Symbols have power that logic often doesn't. Do you remember telling me the story of Visareth Tarkheena, who disarmed and dispersed a riot with only her courage and a pair of proverbs? We can't use her exact methods, but the principle is sound. If we can make the truth into a sword, we might swing nearly the whole Council to your side -- and if they accept you, all the other reasons for not confirming me will look grubby and foolish. And so we win."

"For an afternoon," Aravis said. "Then they will call it a trick, say their votes were coerced, and look for more reasons to mistrust us."

"Or they might see that the sky doesn't fall simply because a Calormene Tarkheena is married to the heir apparent of Archenland. And from there, all things become possible." Cor paused, then added, "Perhaps not the coffee tariffs."

Aravis tightened her hands, digging her nails into his flesh until the pressure rode the fine edge between pleasure and pain. "I insist upon the coffee tariffs. In fact, I may divorce you unless you choose to help me rescind them." She rolled, suddenly, until Cor was flat on his back and she settled astride his hips, clothed only in moonlight and shadow. "As for the rest, tell me your thoughts and together we shall see what we can forge from that raw metal."

"And after that?"

"Oh, after that, all things become possible," Aravis echoed, and swallowed his breath with her lips.


	12. Pomp and Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bree finds human politics and diplomacy deeply silly, but if Cor wants to return to Anvard and face the Great Council, he'll support his boy all the way.

"I still say humans are the least sensible of all thinking creatures," Bree said as he walked beside the dumb bay mare carrying his boy on the narrow, tree-shrouded approach to Anvard. "Why come back to a country that only made you miserable?"

"'Only' is a strong word," Cor said, his lips curling up in a smile. (Bree still thought that was an amazingly stupid bit of body language. Who used a _threat gesture_ to signal happiness and friendship?)

"I suppose Lune and Corin aren't terrible," Bree allowed. "But all this politicking makes my skin itch. Give me a straightforward battle any day. At least then you know who to kick!"

He flicked his tail at the trio of Archen knights who'd met the Narnian party at the border. Whether they were here to protect Cor, Aravis, and the Lady Iris from potential Archen troublemakers, or simply as a sign of respect, in practical terms they were gilded prison escorts, ensuring that Aravis and Cor couldn't make any moves the king and Council might disapprove of.

Bree had spent enough time as a slave to recognize chains when he saw them.

"Ah, but is it not written that all life is a battle?" Aravis said, leaning back on her own mount to address Bree from her position ahead of Cor in their column. "Consider: our escape to Narnia was, in truth, a retreat to gather reinforcements and make new plans. Now our makeshift army advances once again to confront our foes. Onward to victory!"

Hwin whickered laughter from Aravis's right, then raised her neck and hooves impractically high for several steps in mockery of parade-ground cavalry maneuvers. When Bree rolled his eyes in annoyance, she laughed again at her own joke.

Bree addressed Aravis rather than let Hwin distract him: "I meant a real battle, not a metaphor -- unless you two intend to somehow kill the Great Council. Which I wouldn't advise. Even if it were honorable, that sort of thing never did any good against the rebels in western Calormen. They'd only find new leaders and rise again."

"I have no more intention of killing the Great Council than I do of killing my brother," Cor said.

The Archen knight riding close enough to overhear didn't seem to find this reassuring. His free hand strayed a few inches toward the hilt of his sword and his mount, a somewhat nervy roan gelding, sidestepped in response to his unease.

Cor sighed. Aravis tugged her defiantly Calormene dust-scarf up over her mouth and nose, perhaps to hide one of those thousand shades of meaning humans conveyed with their faces.

Bree was considering the best way to dress down the knight for thinking badly of his boy when their small party emerged from the overhanging trees into the cleared ground that stretched like an unrolled blanket around the walls of Anvard. Or rather, they emerged from the trees into a chaos of tents and people, carts and horses, and everywhere the snap of banners in the breeze.

It was nothing like a proper army encampment, though at least the latrines had been dug sensibly off to the side and slightly downslope. It was also not a mix of people he was used to. Calormene armies were of course made only of humans and dumb horses, whereas Narnian armies were mostly Beasts and Beings. This gathering was only _mostly_ humans, with a scattering of Beasts and Beings: largely Bears and Goats, Wildcats and Dwarfs, various Birds, and an occasional Dryad or Naiad for variety: all people more suited for mountain terrain and solitary homesteads than the majority of Narnia's citizens.

At the foot of the Council Oak in the meadow's southern quarter, a few dozen rough-made benches formed two concentric rings. The ground beyond them remained clear for nearly a spear's throw to give people a place to stand and listen.

The Great Council of Archenland had been called, and it seemed as if half the country had come to observe tomorrow's deliberations.

The Archen knights led the group through the jumble of tents and up to the gates in the curtain wall. The heavy doors stood open, and King Lune and Prince Corin waited just beyond, surrounded by a dozen or so humans and one Swan, ungainly and snappish out of water. The Narnian ambassadors stood a tactful distance back and to the side.

The Narnian party dismounted and gathered in a matching, offset line with the Lady Iris at its center. Bree and Hwin edged over to join Cor and Aravis, who had also chosen to stand aside while the formal welcome ceremony got underway. First the Narnians and then the Archens bowed, curtseyed, or attempted whatever equivalent gesture worked with their bodies and lack of clothes to swish around.

The whole thing struck Bree as silly, particularly since Iris had decided the Narnians' order of precedence by making them all draw lots. In this respect, Archenland was much more like Calormen than like her sister country, though the Archens would strongly reject that truth. Perhaps this love of ritual and rank was some quality inherent to humans, the way Crows loved shiny objects and bees performed elaborate dances to direct each other to new flowers. If so, Bree thought the Calormenes were better at it. They certainly worked on a more dramatic scale.

Finally the bobbing and ducking was done and Lune stepped forward to clasp Iris's proffered hand. "'Tis a great pleasure to see you once more in Anvard, my lady," he said. "The Lion's breath be upon you while you lodge under my roof, and also on your way home."

"Our thanks for your hospitality," Iris said in her quiet voice. "Narnia is ever ready to lend support to our sister country in times of turmoil, as Archenland supports us in turn. We have greatly appreciate the chance to offer our own hospitality to Prince Cor and the Lady Aravis these past weeks. We have not forgotten whose warning saved Queen Susan from the perfidy of Rabadash Tisroc, and time and familiarity have only increased the esteem in which we hold them."

Corin, standing at his father's left hand, didn't bother to hide the smile and rolled eyes he directed toward his brother.

Some of the other Archen notables seemed less appreciative of Iris's words. A tall, thick-armed man with stark white hair and beard frowned and laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of a rather washed-out girl who seemed a few years younger than Cor. A short, thin woman with a painfully tidy brown plait tossed over her left shoulder pursed her lips in a gesture unpleasantly similar to Anradin Tarkaan's look of displeasure.

"Who are the pair that look as though they found weevils in their mash?" Bree whispered into Cor's ear.

"Dame Blenith, the royal chancellor, and Warden Pel of the Western Marches," Cor whispered back. "The girl is Pel's granddaughter, the Lady Veril. She's fairly good at accounting and archery, and I think she once tried to run away as a cabin girl on a Terebinthian clipper. Various people think I ought to marry her."

"Hah. Too late for them," Bree said with satisfaction, though he supposed if Cor and Aravis hadn't had an understanding, his boy could well have done worse.

"Yes, too late. Now hush and act dignified; Father's coming over."

As Lune approached, Bree prepared himself for another round of bowing. But the king simply wrapped his son in a tight embrace, as if Cor had been gone for years instead of weeks. After a moment, Cor raised his own arms and returned the hug.

"My boy," said Lune in a queer, choked voice. "Should you ever feel prisoned again, come tell me so I might lend a hand before you see no answer but escape. Duty is hard, but never think I would have you break yourself against its demands."

Cor rested his cheek on top of his father's head. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, 'twill come right in the end," said Lune. He lingered another moment, then released his son and embraced Aravis in turn. "My lady, my most humble apologies to you as well. Art welcome once more in your home."

The last sentence was slightly louder than the others, and easily carried to where the Archen nobles stood. Pel and Blenith's scowls deepened. (Veril, on the other hand, kicked Corin's ankle with the tip of her shoe until he matched her exasperated expression.)

"My thanks to you as well, Lady Hwin, Captain Bree," Lune added as he stepped back from Aravis. "True friends are a gift beyond price, and I am glad my son and my ward can claim such in their lives."

"It was nothing much," Bree said, abashed. "They'd do the same for us." Hwin nickered her agreement.

"And now, as art all tired and hot after a full day's journey, I invite you to settle into your chambers and rest before the evening feast," Lune said. "Lady Iris, if I may have the honor?" She smiled, clasped his hand, and let him escort her across the bailey into the keep.

"There's no need to follow us to the stables," Bree said to Cor when he and Aravis made no move to follow the retreating nobles and notables. "We'll see you at the feast, most likely. And if we don't, we'll see you at the Council in the morning. You'll do fine." He bumped his shoulder gently against Cor's back by way of punctuation.

"Yes," said Cor, straightening as Aravis clasped his hand. "You're right. We will."

"And if they don't, we can always escape again," Bree muttered to Hwin as the two humans walked out of their limited earshot.

Hwin blew noisily through her lips. "Have a little faith. They've come through worse before. I'm sure they'll find a way through this, too. Now let's go find someone willing to work a currycomb before Eena finishes talking to that Cat and comes to pick our brains."


	13. With a Torch, Whose Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aravis and Cor have made their home in Archenland, but they are still Calormene by birth and culture. They are also Archen. And there is no contradiction in those truths.

Aravis expected to sleep poorly, her old bed already too large and its sheets too cool after scant weeks of sleeping with Cor at her side and in her arms. But she woke at dawn refreshed, with the phantom scents of her mother's garden and her father's library lingering in her nose.

She dressed alone, as always.

A drop of musk behind each ear, at each wrist, at the hollow of her throat. Oil combed through her hair (proper light and scented oil, this time, purchased in Cair Paravel from a Seven Isles merchant who served the Calormene diaspora in that country) and the hair itself braided into nine strands that wound together into a crown. A long, narrow dress of patterned green and blue -- Archenland's colors, for the forests and lakes that graced its mountains like jewels. Its skirts were slit high up the sides to show the white silk trousers underneath, their hems bound with her husband's courting gift: the belled jesses, still tied with the scarlet cords she'd chosen when she accepted his offer.

Ironic, that the colors of Narnia and Calavar were the same.

This time, she smudged kohl around her eyes, to make them stand out like the moon shining through tattered clouds, and silver pins, their heads shaped like stars, borrowed from Lady Iris to decorate her hair.

Breakfast was tense. For several years, seating arrangements in the Great Hall placed Cor and Corin at their father's right and left hands, respectively, and Aravis at Cor's side. Today the Lady Iris sat on Lune's right, Ambassador Cereus sat on his left, and the princes were relegated to the far ends of the table. Aravis thus found herself sandwiched between Lady Iris and Dame Blenith, and did her best to respond pleasantly to Iris's remarks about the weather while ignoring Blenith's scathing glances at her clothes and audible sniffs at her perfume.

There were two related concepts in Calormene war arts called the hawk's circle and the hawk's strike, which Aravis had learned from her brother before his death. Northern knights and soldiers knew them as well, though they didn't dignify them with official names. If you were skilled and careful, if you kept your stance open and your pace neither too fast nor too slow, you could walk right up within an enemy's guard and strike before he realized you were a threat.

And so Aravis smiled politely at her opponents and waited for her moment.

Neither she nor Cor had a seat on the Great Council, though every citizen of Archenland had the right to speak before their king and their assembled lawmakers. On this day, they stood just outside the rings of benches, on the roots of the massive oak that marked the king's own seat and had seen nine centuries of governance conducted beneath its branches. The Lady Iris and her fellow Narnians stood on the tree's other side, their presence a tacit reminder that Archen views were not universal.

When the Council members had chosen a Speaker, and the throng had filtered from their tents and pavilions to watch and listen, Lune rose from his seat to open the session.

"Art called here today to settle two questions that have lingered too long unanswered, or even unasked," he said, his voice carrying clear over the meadow with the ease of long practice. "First, whether my elder son, Prince Cor, is fit to follow me as king. Second, whether the Lady Aravis is fit to be his queen. 'Tis the law that no man nor woman may claim Archenland's throne against the will of Archenland's people. 'Tis also the law that a king may name his heir unless there be pressing cause to deny his choice. I say, my son is a worthy man. His wife is a worthy woman. Their care for our land is true. Shallt say aye or nay to them _today_ , under Aslan's sun and Aslan's sky, and cease the game of whispers and delay."

His eyes were fierce and his jaw set, and Aravis saw the gathered crowd remember their king was more than the smiling face he preferred to present to the world.

The Speaker, an elderly woman from the jeweler's guild in Armouth, looked somewhat taken aback by Lune's vehemence. Then she shrugged and moved to the center of the ring. "The king has set the agenda of this Council session. Any who wish to speak on these matters, stand forth."

Marchwarden Pel began to rise, but before he finished drawing breath Cor had stepped into the circle.

"I do," he said. "Will you hear me?"

Again, the Speaker paused. She looked around the ring, as if searching for support. No one offered any, and after a moment she swallowed and said, "The Great Council of Archenland recognizes Prince Cor."

As the Speaker returned to her bench, Cor smiled at his gathered people. "I know it's unusual for a potential heir to speak for or against himself, so I will be brief. I wasn't raised in Archenland, nor did I have any education until my twelfth year. I will never understand this country the way my brother does. But that does not mean I love Archenland any less, nor that I would do anything but my utmost to protect and strengthen her and her people, as the Pevensies did for Narnia, as the Dowager Queen Avirelle did as my grandfather's regent, and indeed as Aravis and I did in our childhoods when we brought word of Rabadash's raid. And with that thought, I yield the circle to my wife."

As he stepped back, Aravis unfastened the hooks that held up the back panel of her dress, letting the cloth hang down to expose her scars. She stepped into the circle.

A thousand eyes pressed upon her like the breathless, crushing weight of water at the dark bottom of a lake: judging her by her skin, her clothes, her history, her name. But the sun shone bright above her, and she almost thought she saw the gods of Calormen standing by her side, all but Tash whom she had betrayed and forsaken: Zardeenah shining like the moon in a mirrored pool; Achadith white as snow and black as pitch with a belt of skulls at her waist; Soolyeh limned in gold like sunkissed grain; Nazreen dim and wavering like stars on a cloudy night; Sokda, Garshomon, and Nur standing behind their respective partners as Cor stood behind her; Azaroth soft and silent as an owl before its strike. And all around her, rising from the earth itself, the rich sweetness of Aslan's breath and the growing rumble of his roar.

Then her knees began to shake, and she realized the roar was real.

On the far side of the circle, Dame Blenith's bench tipped over. Dozens of people clapped hands or paws over the ears. Others looked wildly around for the source of the sound. "The Lion!" someone shouted. "The Lion is coming!" The crowd swung around to face the east.

But the roar gradually faded into the murmur of wind through leaves and cloth. Aslan did not appear.

"It's a sign!" Marchwarden Pel shouted, edging into the circle though the Speaker hadn't recognized him nor had Aravis yielded her turn. "The Lion has spoken!"

 _Now_ , Aravis thought. Strike now, or fall.

"Yes," she said. "Aslan has spoken, as he spoke before. And now I will speak. Hear my words, O people of Archenland, and decide for yourselves what the Lion meant by his sign."

"It's obvious what--" Warden Pel began, but a Bear and his granddaughter pulled him back down to his seat. The Speaker scowled at him and waved for Aravis to continue.

She drew a deep breath, and began to turn, facing each member of the Council in turn. "When I was a child, I lost one country and gained another, and I count my loss no sorrow. I have lost a father and gained a husband, and I count the exchange fair. I have lost my rank and gained true friends, and I count my wealth beyond measure. I have lost Tash's favor and gained the Lion's judgment, and I count myself blessed at the chance to strive for worthiness in his sight. I have changed my life so far that my own mother (on whom be the peace of the Lion) would count me a stranger, but I will change only thus far and no more. The Lion accepted me as a daughter of both Calormen and Archenland. You have seen his marks. You have heard his roar. Will you doubt his word?"

The question hung in the air, ringing with a faint echo of Aslan's roar as all of Archenland waited -- hungry, judging -- for the Council's answer.

Aravis met Cor's eyes across the empty circle, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, victory. :)
> 
> If you've enjoyed this story (and even if you haven't), please go give kudos to the wonderful [cover art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7733068/chapters/17626726) that Errantry drew for me as part of the 2016 WIP Big Bang!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover: The Courting Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7733068) by [Errantry (Hecateae)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecateae/pseuds/Errantry)




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